


King of New York

by JadedTangerine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Historical, Graphic Violence, M/M, New York City is a mean mean lady, Newsies - Freeform, Slight spoilers, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, Way too many fight scenes, adapted canon, newsies au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 03:24:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadedTangerine/pseuds/JadedTangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Newsies’ AU. At the turn of the century, Dean Winchester, seventeen, finds himself stranded with his little brother Sam in New York City. With their father missing in action, they hunt monsters by night and sell newspapers by day. It’s a hard business, with the streets rife with stories of missing children and Dean carrying the scars of a particularly vicious hunt. However, he thinks he may have found their ticket out of Skid Row in the form of Castiel, a rather peculiar newcomer to the newsie business who may be just want they need to get a selling edge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: You Win Some, You Lose Some

  
**King Of New York**

**Prologue**

You Win Some, You Lose Some

#

If New York was a person, Dean Winchester thought, she’d be one of those fancy-looking ladies in black and lace, hiding a glowering look behind a fan, showing her face only when her ladies in waiting weren’t looking. There were a lot of rumours about the fancy dame, New York, and she lived up to her reputation, depending on who you talked to. A lot of men pinned their hopes on Lady Manhattan, and she dashed or doted on a whim. He barked his shin on a broken piece of railing as he reached the rooftop, almost falling back over the perilous edge. It was the tallest building in the neighbourhood, nothing above them but smog and the night sky. New York was one mean-spirited gal.

They were on the tail end of a hunt, five missing children snatched off the streets, bodies torn and broken. Kids just like Sam and Jo. Just in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Living on the streets, it was hard to be anywhere but the wrong place.

It flicked ahead, half-shadow, half serial killer, sometimes on two legs, sometimes on all four. They’d chased it for weeks, following the trail of murders until they found the hovel. It wasn’t their first werewolf, but the silver knife Bobby had hid under the floorboards still weighed heavy in his palm. Dean could hear its ragged breathing, echoing off brick and iron. The recent boats had brought more than just exhausted migrants. A whole host of other creatures had been lured by the promise of gold-paved streets and a smorgasbord of human misery, fleeing their forests and caves. The rifle swung to and fro behind him, their last silver bullets in his pocket. Money that could have fed them for weeks, wasted on another flea-bitten werewolf.

Sam was somewhere below him, weaving his way through the backstreets and hidden walkways. There was a whole network of them across the city, hidden routes through factories and across the rooftops, like some warren of the disowned. His younger brother was a lanky kid of thirteen, awkward but not clumsy, and the smartest guy Dean knew. The creature had fled to the rooftops the second it had the caught their scent. Up in its own domain, it would be easier to throw them from the rooftop than face them in the street. Fine with Dean, less people to ask questions.

The werewolf turned on all fours, blood and slaver dripping from its jaws. Its coat was pitch-black, making it almost invisible, except for the wild eyes reflecting the gaslight lamps. He could forgive the papers for thinking it was a mad dog, it was a whole lot wolfier than a lot of the lycans they’d dealt with, but tearing out hearts was hardly a yardstick of normalcy. It almost looked like it was smiling.

“You think to kill me, boy?” It chewed the words and spat them out in stilted English, a language ill-suited to the creature’s mouth, obscured by sharp fangs and a thick accent. Something Eastern European.

“Better than you deserve, wolfie.”

Five victims snatched from windows and hovels, leaving their parents with nothing but torn clothes and the pawprints of a huge, mad dog.

“In my land I was feared above all else. When I passed over, grown men dropped to their knees and wept, preying to their feeble new God.”

“Yeah, yeah, great story.” He rolled his eyes.

The edges of the black creature seemed to quiver a little; he tightened his grip on the knife. She was leaning to her left, no doubt feeling the sting of silver, eyes mad and mouth wide in a canine parody of a laugh. The other ones hadn’t been so chatty. The theatrics, while tedious, would help Sam locate him, and give him sometime while he got ready to reload the rifle.

“Oh, you are a spirited one. Two brothers Winchester. Far too long you have hunted what you cannot understand, but I will put a stop to that. I will drown you in your own blood, like the street rats you are.”

The rain was sudden. It felt like needles against his bare skin, straight into his face. The bullet slipped between his numb fingers and the gun powder was hopelessly soaked. A rainstorm in the middle of May, seemingly localised to the single block. A job for a knife then.

“Your brother will watch me eat your heart raw.”

It lunged. He braced himself, almost tripping as the too-long strap of the rifle swung the barrel into the backs of his knees. The thing hit, and the world went black and smelt like sweat and wild animal. Jaws snapped at his throat, enveloping him in breath that smelt like rotting meat. He stabbed up, cleaving chest muscles as the thing writhed, trying to get a clear bite at his chest and neck. It made a high-pitched gurgling sound. No, not gurgling. Laughter.

A pair of distinctly human eyes looked down at him, set in a wolf’s skull. It laughed as the wind tossed paper and scum high into the air around them, their feet churning the gravel and mud. Rain pelted the ground, becoming a thick, soupy mist. It was like running under a waterfall. A werewolf would be dead by now. A werewolf didn’t find itself in convenient patches of bad weather. This did not look good. Above him a long, black muzzle grinned, now more reptilian than wolf, and human pupils, grey as the abrupt storm clouds that crowded the sky. He tried to keep his eyes open against the stinging rain and the beast’s dripping fur.

“Silly children. You and your brother. I have lived a thousand years, killed whole villages on a whim. I am no filthy _vikaldi_ to be killed by your pretty knife. I am _ala.”_

“And that”, Dean growled, from under one hundred and ten kilograms of wet dog stink, “means absolutely nothing to me.”

He thought he heard Sam’s voice, and– was that _hail_? He could hear it, the storm gusting so loud it was a shriek, but there was only him and whatever the Hell this thing was on the rooftop. He’d said the name like it was something he should know.

“The Black Eyes are coming. I am doing you a kindness, little hunter.”

The creature seemed to have forgotten the knife, and he jammed it further in, with a vicious twist. It didn’t have much effect, but he wasn’t going out screaming at the end of some long-winded monologue. Still twisting, savage jaws closed around his exposed throat, spilling warm blood across his chest, pushing dank fur into his face.

There was a noise like a crack of thunder. The scream of something that might have been a woman's. Impossible cold followed by a heat that seemed to burn all the moisture out of the air. He choked on the creature’s fur and the dry air. He was dying. That was the grim fact of the matter. He kicked out feebly. Everything was too loud. Something was burning, but he couldn’t see anything except stringy, black hair.

Suddenly the pain was gone, he felt like he was falling backwards, through the roof. A ringing sound began, low at first, but the pitch kept rising and rising, to an ear-splitting pitch and beyond. And then the sensation of a hand gripping his arm, pulling him back. He thought it was his father for a second, pulling him back from the edge of the clearing, as he taught him to hunt. _Not so fast Dean, you’ll give away our position._ The hand gripped tighter and grew hot. He screamed with a breath he seemed to have forgotten to draw, as something pulled him back to the rooftop, under the wolf-woman and into a pool of blood-tainted rain.

Dean felt something, an enormous amount of sound and light moving rapidly away. Every breath was an effort as his throat tightened. Hadn’t he been savaged by the... not-werewolf? He had definitely broken a rib in the fight. He should be bleeding out. A rattling sound mimicked the draw and release of his own breath. Everything was getting heavier and darker, moving away from him. He became acutely aware of how dark it had gotten.

He woke in his brother’s arms, gasping into the smoky dawn of the first clear sky in weeks, a handprint blazing across his arm as red as the Manhattan sunrise.


	2. Act One: Carrying the Banner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Dean, the nightmares are a fact of life, as much as The Mark and the daily grind of selling papers on the street, but the greenest newsie in the city with the baby blues and a complete lack of street smarts might just turn his luck around.  
> Cue whiskey and Sam being the responsible one.

  
**King Of New York**

**Act One**

Carrying the Banner

Dean tried to rub some warmth into his shoulders, in an hour or two, once the sun had made its way into the shadows of the buildings, he’d be sweltering hot, longing for the pre-dawn bite. Steam rose up from the horses and human traffic, fading into the iron-grey sky as the tall buildings kept the streets in cool shadow. A cart trundled up beside them, carrying the smell of horses and fresh paper as the driver navigated the narrow street, hemmed in on all sides by brick buildings. He waved at the brothers, the horse throwing its head nervously as a young boy just missed the wheels, laughing. All around them, young men and homeless kids ambled through the crowd, loud and full of energy, ready to sell _The Sun, The Bugle_ and _The Courier_.

Bright and energetic as it was, the world seemed to be conspiring to irritate Dean Winchester as much as possible. He was sleeping badly again. He hated it. He was exhausted, and knew he was keeping Sam up too. When he awoke like that in the dead of night, Sam shaking him awake and looking scared, it was The Mark he felt first, before the guilt and the fear. Like the glow of a dying fire underneath his skin. Every morning as he dressed it reminded him of its presence, a bright red handprint, raised and raw, that didn’t seem to heal. He rubbed it through the thin cotton, looking balefully at the morning rush. It wasn’t that it hurt so much, but it was always there, a lingering souvenir of something he would rather forget. Sam gave him a worried look from the corner of his eye.

“Let’s try and get there before they sell all the papers, ok, Paul Bunyan?” he said, pushing forward through the crunch of people. Sam hurried to match his pace.

Sam Winchester was tall for thirteen, wearing ill-fitting hand-me-downs and a crop of shaggy hair, already drawing attention. He had a softer, kinder look than his brother, which Dean relentlessly teased him about. His baby brother had grown fast, especially in the past two years they’d been stuck in New York. Dean hated being stranded there, but Sam seemed to thrive on the city environment, making a cluster of friends among the newsies and settling into the life as if he were born to it. He was happy Sammy thought he was happy, but Dean wouldn’t give up so easily. Dean wouldn’t settle. They were hunters, they belonged on the road.

He could practically _feel_ the look his brother was giving him. He knew what this was about. Sam wanted to Talk. He wanted to talk about the night in May five weeks ago. The night they fought the not-werewolf and something happened both of them were at a loss to explain. Something had changed that night, not just for them. The air was charged with a sense of expectation, it was making people uneasy, it was making the monsters braver. He’d heard stories, nothing substantial enough to investigate, but there were rumours of disappearances and strange people in places they had no business being.

He could still feel the pain in his side sometimes, even after Ellen and Bobby had set his bones and sewn him up with grim, practised ease. He faintly wondered how many of their own broken bones they’d set. Or his father’s. He had vivid memories of his father with bandaged arms and black eyes, gritting his teeth and pretending he was fine. He’d shown Bobby The Mark on the first morning, when Sam had dragged him back, unable to explain what he’d seen, blinking as if snow-blind. Dean himself had looked almost unscathed. Nothing seemed to work on it, it was just _there_ , as if it had always been there. There was nothing in the lore, or their father’s journal. Bobby couldn’t find anything to help in his books, Ellen said she’d never seen anything like it the entire time she’d been keeping the Meadowlark. And she’d seen more wounds and bites than most Hunters did in their entire lifetime. So Dean hid the raised, raw handprint under his sleeve and said nothing more.

He didn’t know what they’d killed on the rooftop that night, or how they’d barely managed to come out on top. He didn’t know what The Mark meant. Dean was sick of talking about it and sick of thinking about it. He’d wanted to believe it was over then, like the storm. But life was never that easy when you were a Winchester.

An excited clamour began to rise over the streets and alleyways surrounding _The New York Sun’s_ circulation yard, known as The Pen to the locals. Dean yawned. All around them bleary-eyed young boys marched towards the Pen, their feet following the same old tracks, hardly looking around as they prepared themselves for another day of selling papers to New York’s literate. It reminded him of the ants that seemed to swell up from the cracks in the summertime, gone within five minutes, on routes only they knew, hunting for food. The teenagers clustered into groups, swapping news and squabbling over territory. Dean had always liked the Pen. The sound of boisterous newsies echoed over the top of the high brick walls, crowding around the cast-iron gates of the circulation office. Familiar faces swapped stories and advice, most of them bawdy, waiting for the bell to ring and signal the start of another day of work. He leant against the gate, waiting for Sam to catch up.

Dean liked the ritual, you knew where you stood with your fellow newsies. If hunters could get along like newsies they might all live a little longer, he thought bitterly. The street kids were survivors; orphans, runaways, the dirt-poor and the disowned. They regarded the Winchesters with the cautious respect due to fellow survivors. It hadn’t been easy at first. There was always some miserable bully who wanted to pick a fight, thinking to gull a cut of the new guy’s profits, rather than selling his own papes like everyone else. They hadn’t stood much of a chance against someone used to burning their opponent’s bones after the match. Most streetfolk knew well enough to leave the brothers alone.

Sam sidled up, carefully counting out the pennies and repacking the bread he’d saved from dinner. A blackboard hung amongst the apartment windows, grimy with soot and chalk. Under it was a wooden ladder and scaffold structure the yard workers climbed every morning to announce the news. A silence fell on the crowd as the day’s headlines were chalked up high in the square. Dean could hear every screech of the chalk as the words that dictated how they ate tonight were put down in block letters. Sam groaned. _‘TROLLEY STRIKE HITS THIRD WEEK’_ was written in the smudge. There was a slight delay as those that could read passed the message around. Someone close by cursed tearfully, others scuffed boots and moaned. Fights would break out soon. Too many empty stomachs and hot tempers. Even Sam and Dean had been having a rough week. The average reader just didn’t want to hear about the labour strikes, or the women’s banquet or any other of the silly little plays going on all around the city. You could only con a man so many times.

“What you need,” came a sly voice to their right, “Is a nice little war, or a plague. Used to be two-a-penny back in my day.”

Balthazar leant against the wall, lighting up a cigarette and giving Sam a wink. He had a lean, whiskery look, a grifter through and through, even at the tender age of nineteen. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, mouth twisted in a perpetual smirk. He was too well-dressed to be honest, fingers never still. He shook out the match and eyed the pair.

“You’d do better playing the ponies like me. Got a sure-fire winner for you. Free of charge.”

“Yeah, no thanks. We all know how your inside tips tend to turn out” Dean growled.

The guy made him uneasy, he always turned up at the wrong times.

Garth bounced up beside them, a thirteen year old who looked less well-fed than some of the strays in the area. He always seemed to have just walked out of a sudden storm, battered and surprised-looking, but appallingly cheerful. Balthazar looked unimpressed, walking off with a lazy wave to find more profitable marks. “You boys have a lovely day then.”

“Sam, Dean, how’s it going?” Garth asked, looking between the two as he played with the fraying corner of his coat. The boy launched into a excitable recount of a very generous customer, the errand he did and the pennies he’d collected, Sam nodding good-naturedly as he tried to dodge the kid’s windmilling arms. Dean yawned, impatient to be going about the business of making money.

They made their way through the line without trouble, handing over their money and trading insults with the circulation officer, unkindly known as ‘Weasel’ by the boys. Dean frowned, settling down with the broadsheet, looking for any odd set of stories, unusual deaths, births, any natural phenomena hidden deep between the ads for department stores and drug stores. Anything that might need hunting. Sam was better at it than him, but it was part of their morning ritual.

“Baby born with two heads...” he muttered, flipping the page and brushing the hair out of his eyes. “Must’ve been from Brookl—.”

“You callin’ me a liar, boy?” a voice bellowed over the crowd,

“There are only nineteen” replied a second, quiet and solemn, as The Pen suddenly came to a standstill.

Dean abandoned his early morning sulk, one hand unconsciously spread over his upper arm, encompassing the Mark. He stood on his toes, trying to see over the rest of the line, to the commotion at the offices. Looked like trouble. He could smell new meat a mile away, and this kid was as green as they came. He seemed completely oblivious to the fact that he was currently hemmed in by a pair of thugs looking to burn off a little post-breakfast brutality. Weasel’s errand boys, The Delanceys. Total thugs. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath, waiting to see what this strange new boy was made of, thirsty for blood.

“It is a sin to bear false witness.” the new guy said dully.

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it was not that.

“I said, you callin’ me a liar, boy?” Weasel bellowed. His considerable bulk bristled behind the counter.

The boy gave him a long, hard look, like a schoolmistress with a delinquent child. “That was my intention, yes.”

One of the thugs grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around, lifting him up against the wall by the lapels of the long brown coat wrapped around his skinny frame. The kid’s bare feet barely scraped the floor. He was completely unconcerned with the ugly face mere centimetres from his own. Dean couldn’t help but notice his rather striking eyes, an odd colour in this part of town.

“Think you’re a big man, pipsqueak?” Frankie growled, spitting out the last word.

Blue Eyes was half-mad at least. The guy had a good stone on him, almost as tall as Sammy and built like a mastiff. Looked like one too. This wasn’t going to end friendly. Against his better judgement, he shoved forward.

“He’s right, Weasel.” Dean made a show of thumbing through the papers, not like he really needed to count. The newspaperman pulled this trick with all the new kids. It was kind of a rite of passage, separate the troublemakers from the sensible. And this one sure wasn’t sensible. He could feel Blue Eyes’s gaze on his back as he leant over the counter, showing off maybe just a little.

“Aww, it’s ok Tommy, looks like Frankie here got the brains and the beauty. Not that there was much to go around, huh?” Dean smiled.

“Watch’a sayin’?” Frankie’s eyes narrowed, not sure if he was being insulted or complimented.

Sam fought his way through the crowd, getting between the two and ignoring the hollering of teenagers spoiling for a fight.

“Can we all just act like adults for a minute?” he sighed, “I’m sure it was just an honest mistake.”

“Of course. In fact,” Dean nodded theatrically at the crowd, fishing a penny from the depths of his pocket and slamming it on the counter. “Forty more papes more my new buddy here. Better count ‘em twice, eh Tommy?”

The younger Delancey brother made as if to jump the counter. His blood was up now, just daring them to try it again. He was crazy enough today, glad to fight something without telepathy or fangs. Sam rolled his eyes and hefted his papers over one shoulder. Dean would have been happy to show off a bit more for the crowd if his little brother wasn’t such an old biddy. No sense of fun whatsoever. A real tragedy.

“Better let him down, Frankie, I’m sure he’s had enough of your ugly mug to last a lifetime.”

Dean couldn’t resist a final dig at the institutional enemies of The Pen. Most of these kids had been beaten up by the brothers at one point or another .Frankie snarled, dropping his newest target. Blue Eyes landed precariously, ignoring the thug as he tilted his head at Dean.

“I believe I have enough to suit my needs” he said.

This kid was weird. Talked pretty fancy, for a kid from an orphanage. He was barefoot, wearing one of the long, white sleeping shirts they gave out at such places. And a big tan coat he must’ve stolen. Not a speck of dirt on him either. A fresh runaway maybe. Raised Church, he suspected. The kid matched his stare without blinking.

“C’mon, every newsie wants more papes!”

He dumped the stack of papers on Blue Eyes and looked him up and down. Quite unusual. Dean Winchester was getting the stirrings of a very interesting idea. Several of the regulars hung back, grinning and muttering, still spoiling for a fight. He grabbed Sam’s shoulder in one hand, gently steering Blue Eyes out of the Yard with the other. The other boy followed him, looking at his hand like he was studying it. This kid didn’t seem to get out much.

“Sam and Dean Winchester” Blue Eyes said in a weird tone, like he knew them. Not really a question, more like he was reassuring himself. His blood ran cold for a second. Sam beat him to the punch, they didn’t just give away their family name to any old stranger. Not in their line of work.

“How do you know our names...?” His brother waited for their new associate to introduce himself. Blue Eyes just seemed content to look at them both without blinking much. It was making Dean a little uncomfortable. He looked away.

“You are Sam and Dean. The Host speaks of you often” the kid said finally, almost to himself.

The Host? Dean tried to recall any gangs of street kids he knew with that name. Nothing came to mind, probably one of the smaller ones out in Brooklyn or around the Docks. They _did_ have a reputation, after all.

“Yeah, ” Sam answered, although the kid was looking directly at Dean, standing just a little bit too close. Dean took a step back. “What do they call you?”

“My father named me Castiel.” He answered in that strange gravelly monotone that didn’t seem to match his boyish face. Weird name. Probably Italian or something. A Catholic maybe. “I am an angel of the Lord.”

“Aren’t we all!” Dean agreed.

Sam shot him a look. It was true, they attracted some of the... odder elements of New York. But this Castiel seemed relatively harmless, if a little touched in the head.

“So...Castiel... you ever sold papes before?”

The young man gave him a blank look.

“Papers. Newspapers.” He tapped the large stack Castiel cradled in his arms.

“Oh.” His gaze followed Dean’s fingers. , considering the newspapers as if he was seeing them for the first time. He looked back up. “No.”

Sam looked stricken. Dean had the feeling they were about to adopt another stray puppy. Now that he’d calmed down from the fight a bit, he took a good, long look at the greenest newsie in New York. He was scrawny, but about Dean’s own age with patchy stubble just beginning to grow across his jaw. He looked far too clean to be a street rat, most likely a runaway from an orphanage. Someone you’d definitely remember, he was catching quite a few eyes already. Castiel was looking at their surroundings like he was on holiday, but his gaze always returned to Dean, like he was afraid he would run off at any second.

Dean moved closer, the kid was going to get himself killed or worse, walking around wide-eyed like that. Dress him in white and put a candle in his hands and he’d look like one of those choirboys rich people put on Christmas banners. Good kids who said their evening prayers and never burnt the bodies of the restless dead under cover of dark. He wore a tan coloured overcoat, a few sizes too big, hiding most of his form, cuffs dropping over his fingertips. A crop of dark brown hair hung over his forehead, not quite neat. But it was his eyes that were catching the not-so-subtle glances of the flower girls and society dames. Castiel was by no means strapping, a little too babyish in the face, but his eyes were brilliant blue and piercing. He’d kissed a girl with eyes like that once. Hers had been warmer though, her name agilely eluded him, sneaking to a dark corner of his mind. Their interloper’s has an eerie quality to them, like there were seeing something just beyond the filthy street. A bit unnerving but kind of hypnotic. They didn’t quite match his face, but they’d draw the customer in. His scheme was becoming a _plan_.

Sam looked worried, trying to coax more information out of him, but Castiel didn’t seem concerned with giving a single straight answer.

“Well Castiel, looks like it’s your lucky day!”

Dean threw any arm around him, pulling Sam in with the other, as if the stinking chaos of wagons and stallholders were some great Gold Rush town they were all admiring.

“You’re gonna learn from the masters. Once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, most newsies would kill for it. A small tuition fee, of course, but a sound investment for the future of your New York education!”

Sam gave him a suspicious look over the top of Castiel’s head. Dean smiled back sunnily. Castiel just looked confused.

“I don’t understand.”

“Dean is offering to teach you how to sell newspapers.” Sam explained gently, like he was trying to figure out the trick himself.

The smallest member of the trio looked down at the papers again. “Yes, I suppose that would be helpful for the completion of my mission. Show me how to sell papers.”

The brothers looked at each other, Sam not going to great lengths to show his complete confidence in the idea, but he could tell the lost and clueless routine was tugging at his young heartstrings.

“Great!”

He had to admit, it was nice having someone shorter than himself around. A man could get...esteem issues, running around with a giant thirteen year old. Castiel looked at him and then around the street. The payoff would support their nocturnal pursuits for months but it may actually be a challenge getting the kid street-ready. Not that they hadn’t shown newsies the ropes before, but no one as out of touch as Castiel. He just seemed to lack the mean cunning and quick reflexes a street kid needed. In a word, completely devoid of street smarts.

Sam raised an eyebrow at him, he’d developed a whole cipher of raises and furrows and frowns to mark his disapproval of Dean’s crazier plans. Dean grinned back.

#

Little Italy was full of its usual morning bustle. Makeshift stalls lined the street, draped with vegetables and herbs, the smell of horses, dirt and roasting meat sitting over the place like a haze. Strong Mediterranean tenors yelled out their wares to the passersby. That, he realised, was what had struck him about Castiel at the Pen. It was strange, Dean had heard him over the crowd even though he never seemed to raise his voice. There was something eerie about that, this was a loud city, it had no time for the soft-spoken. Some of the stallholders greeted Sam and Dean, but most ignored them, turning their attentions to the rich gentlemen with their wives and daughters.

Speaking of which, Dean looked up, hearing the laughter and whispers of the greengrocers’ daughters, watching. He knew a few by name, but most were just content to giggle from behind their hands and window panes. Castiel was absorbed in the street level, apparently oblivious to the girls pointing and gossiping about Little Italy’s newest face. Sam shot him a pointed look from the opposite street corner, selling today’s headline, or a more profitable variation of it. Right.

“Hey Cas, can you hold this for me?”

He pulled out his hunting knife. It was iron, a thank you gift from a Bowery gypsy. He pushed the knife into Castiel’s unsuspecting hands, making sure that his fingertips brushed against the flat of the blade, breaking the skin. Castiel didn’t even flinch, just frowned as Dean swiped an apple from a particularly bad-tempered greengrocer. An old enemy of Dean’s. Nasty business. Coppers involved. He felt relieved when he looked back at the boy, no hissing, no cursing, no black eyes. He was irrationally relieved, really. It seemed important somehow. Castiel was just a regular kid. Weird but human. The boy gave the blade a peculiar look, absorbed in his own reflection.

He picked the knife out of his hands, wiping it on his shirt. He cut a slice of the apple and passed it to Castiel. He chewed cautiously as Dean cut his own. The kid seemed surprised. Dean whistled, throwing the other half to Sam, who caught it effortlessly in between ‘extras’.

“You called me ‘Cas’.”

“Yeah” he said through a mouthful of apple, “Castiel’s way too long, can’t be gettin’ all tongue-tied this early in the morning. Bad for business.”

He held the paper up, yells blending with the crowd, competing with the fruit sellers. He knew a few customers by name, his regulars, there were even one or two hunters he sold to. They liked to buy from the Winchesters, knowing John’s boys would check for anything off. They gave good tips when they could. Castiel pressed against his side, trying to make eye contact with everyone. He was definitely from out of town.

“Extra! Extra!” Dean bellowed, like second nature, “Ellis Island Scandal! Mayor involved!”

In truth, it was a page seven story about a feud over a public park, but the parties were rich enough to get the mayor involved. So technically true. He couldn’t help it if people thought the worst.

“That not what the paper says” he said, frowning at Dean. “The text is clearly written.”

He was surprised he could hear anything over the crowd. He thought back to that morning. _‘Bearing false witness?’_ Cas spoke like some of the Bible verses his father had taped into the journal. Old Testament stuff. Nobody spoke like that. Well, he’d rather be a false witness than a kid with a hungry little brother to look after. Castiel would soon learn all those pretty words didn’t fare quite so well with an empty stomach and no place to sleep. Not that he’d let it get to that. Even on his worst days he’d done his job, kept Sam fed and safe. But this boy, Dean doubted he’d ever gone hungry a day in his life. If only he knew what was really lurking out there in the streets. What Dean did at night to keep himself sane in the rat’s nest of New York.

Still, there was something refreshing about his innocence.

He shrugged. “Man’s gotta eat.”

John Winchester had raised his boys as hunters. Their mother was gone. Killed, but they never talked about that. When Sam had asked he’d just shushed him, told him not to make Dad mad. They’d always been on the road from town to town on some endless search. Sneaking rides on trains and carts. Dean had liked to pretend they were sheriffs, looking for bandits, when he’d been little. Then John Winchester had shown him what waited out in the dark. The boys had been raised up on iron and Latin, Dean had painted his first devil’s trap before he could even read. Sam was the bookish one, Dean preferred a sharp knife and a revolver full of rock salt. It wasn’t an easy life for a kid, but they stuck together.

And then, two years ago, his father had left them with Uncle Bobby in, rather suitably, Hell’s Kitchen. A gruff man who drank too much and liked to pretend he didn’t care about much of anything. Good old Bobby. He heard them arguing the night before John Winchester left for Wisconsin. He’d never seen Bobby that angry before, eyes cold and voice low, almost a growl as his father gave him one last hug and walked out the door. That was the last time any of them had seen John Winchester.

There were one or two letters at first. Dean knew them word for word and kept them hidden in a biscuit tin underneath the dresser, with a bottle of whiskey he’d nicked and the broken handle of the hunting knife he couldn’t part with. That was all John Winchester had been able to leave his sons; the letters, a battered revolver and the hide-covered journal. The journal contained a lifetime of hunter’s knowledge and lore crammed with its buckling pages and hidden under a floorboard on Sam’s side on the bed. He now realised his father had fully considered he might not come back, had trusted Dean to look after Sam in his place. Like he always had.

Bobby was a hunter too, at first he tried to get the boys to give up the life and settle down. Stubborn as he was, he’d given up after three months of sneaking out, when they’d arrived just in time to prevent him getting cut to ribbons by a particularly vengeful spirit. Their Uncle Bobby had tried his best to raise the boys on his own, often with some not so subtle hints from Ellen Harvelle, his friend and bartender. But his meagre wage at the sleeper factory just wasn’t enough for two growing boys, a full-grown man and a constant need for salt and ammunition. That’s when Sammy suggested selling papers, like they used to in Chicago. They had to get very good, very quickly. But they were a team, the Winchester brothers.

“Quick boy! I got places to be!”

The customer’s moustache bristled with impatience. Dean reached over Castiel’s shoulder and handed the man his change. This would be a challenge, turning Cas into a proper newsie, but he was determined.

“Please tell me you at least know how to count” he said.

The blue-eyed kid turned to him, frowning slightly. “Your money has no value where I am from. Your primitive language and –”

“Yeah well, out here you ain’t got no fusty old Fathers handing out gruel three times a day. Just follow my lead alright?” Dean’s tone was sharp, but his pupil didn’t seem to notice.

Castiel learnt quickly, more by watching and copying what Dean was doing than actually following his instructions. His manner was a little off but Dean could already see the way the sales were mounting. He smiled to himself, his hunch was correct. Come nightfall, Sam would be eating his words with a big second helping of ‘told you so’. There was another reason they were here of course, in Little Italy at this time of day, not usually a profitable place first thing in the morning, not many rich gentlemen on their way to work. Most of the people living in this street couldn’t even read.

Dean chewed his lip, studying the passersby. It was strange how nobody really noticed them, no matter how loud they were. They were invisible. People heard them. They knew they were there. They just didn’t... count, in ordinary folk’s eyes. He preferred it that way. Dean felt the Colt against his chest as Castiel continued to do the tourist thing, drawing attention away from his search. They were looking for someone who didn’t fit in. The signs were all there, the sulphur residue, the grisly deaths, the odd weather. A stranger caught his eye, nothing really telling at first, just a gut feeling. The man was leaning over a stand of mostly rotten fish, far too well-dressed to be on this side of town. Not that they could do anything in broad daylight, not here. Their enemy was completely safe, happily wriggling among the humans like a worm in an apple. But that same situation was keeping him and Sammy alive. Safety in numbers and all that, although it worked both ways. Nobody noticed a few missing street kids here and there. 

The large gentlemen, looked up from the rotten fish, as if sniffing the air. He turned, eyes locking onto to Sam across the packed streetscape. The man’s eyes went pitch black for a second as he wore a predator’s smile. To anyone else it would have been a mere trick of the light, but to Dean it was all the proof he needed.

“Stay put. I need to check something out”, he whirled around, making sure the boy was listening. Castiel gave him that intense glare that made him shiver a little. He was going to have to talk to him about that later. “I mean it, do not leave this spot. You’ll get lost and we don’t want to waste the whole day tracking your skinny ass to Brooklyn and back.”

The last thing they needed was getting someone else mixed up in their crazy game of cat and mouse. He’d go it alone if he could, but that, as always, proved to be an awful idea. Sam was his hunting partner as well as his brother. Even Bobby didn’t hunt alone when he could help it.

“Just look friendly and stay here.”

He tilted the cap over his head, moving through the crowd with ease now he’d dumped most of his papers. The guy’s clothes were immaculate. Never trust a man with clean clothes. He was making his way towards Sam, limping a little, eyes flickering. He could almost imagine the odour of sulphur, hidden by the street scents. He spun the barrel of the Colt, feeling the reassuring click and whir of the bullets, cartridges full of stolen iron and salt. Just in case. He didn’t dare whistle to warn Sam, not with the way its eyes flickered about like a rat in a pantry. His brother’s eyebrows darted up into his fringe, as if he’d heard the revolver. The Colt rested snugly in his coat pocket. Head down, he followed, a far more natural fit in the crowd than the demon. Sam looked up properly, and caught how Dean was walking, who he was following and his hand flickered to the knife, the other still toting the papers.

He breathed deeply, glancing over his shoulder. Of course, Castiel had disappeared. Because that was the way Dean’s luck swung these days, Lady Luck’s favourite whipping boy. The kid was gone, along with a stack of their day’s papers. It’d have to wait. He growled in frustration, turning back to the bobbling bowler hat in front of him, hand twisted around the grip of the revolver as he turned towards him and ...

“One paper, m’boy!”

The owner of the bowler hat was definitely not his quarry, round-faced and moustachioed. He completed the transaction with minimal charm as Little Italy churned around him, losing sight of his quarry, his brother and his meal ticket. There was no sign of his Bowler Hat anywhere.

“Oh Hell.”

“Not quite yet,” a voice hissed in his ear.

A vice-like grip clamped down upon his shoulder, strong enough to break bones, preventing him from reaching the gun. He caught sight of the bowler brim in the corner of his eye, struggling against the attacker in the middle of a crowded street. No one gave them much of a look.

“You’ve been following me, boy.”

The man began steering them through the people, towards a little back alley. Dean tried to grind his heels into the pavers, but the creature was inhumanely strong, picking him up by the scruff like a kitten.

“Ain’t nice to poke your nose where it ain’t wanted, Dean Winchester.”

It was the second person he’d met that day who knew a name they shouldn’t, but at least the demon wasn’t so preachy.

“Was I interrupting something?” he asked innocently.

“Not at all.” The man pulled close and despite his tailored suit and oiled hair, he could smell sulphur and rotting teeth. They rounded the corner and Little Italy became a mute backdrop, the demon chuckled in his ear, too close for comfort. He tried to wriggle free. “You and your brother are a bit of an in-joke back at the farm, stumblin’ through our business bold as brass.”

He felt fingers clasp at his throat as the creature shed its human eyes, pitch black orbs somehow still managing to look smug.

“Well, your business is my business, guv’nor.”

He grinned through the chokehold, trying to reach the gun pressing into his ribs, arms pinned behind his back. Giving up, he went for an old fashioned kick to the gut. The demon laughed, his responding punch was vicious, a little too much demon behind it as he slammed his fist into Dean’s jaw.

“Yeah, they said you were a mouthy one.”

The gentlemen’s manicured hand tightened around his throat. He gurgled something obscene. Sam skidded into the entrance of the twisting alley, his body having a hard time keeping up with his legs as he lunged, falling hard as their adversary flicked his hand lazily. The opposition always seemed to be two steps ahead of them these days. Demon powers, telepathy, fangs. Same monsters, new tricks. That was New York for you. Sam jumped to his feet, clutching the knife by the grip in a pose Dean had come to recognise from nights training on the rooftop of Bobby’s building. Sam was going to try and throw the knife, like the performers they’d seen on Coney Island. A good trick if it worked, but Sam was still working on it.

“Let him go.”

The man laughed creakily, his mouth moving all wrong.

“I don’t think I will just yet.” He turned, giving him a leer.” Little Sammy Winchester, my, how you’ve grown.”

He was close to blacking out as Sam wound his arm back, eyes wide with panic.

“I swear Sam, if you nail me with that I will haunt you till you’re a giant old man.”

He could hear his heart in his ears, the demon turning back to admire his handiwork as Sam and the knife slammed into the opposite wall as if shoved by some invisible thug. He looked past the black eyes to his little brother. He looked shocked. The creature turned, following Sam’s gaze, making a little choked hiss as the newest interloper in their little pantomime pressed two fingers on its tailored vest, eyes glowing with a hot white light. The stranger chanted something in a deep voice. Bowler Hat screeched, flailing and falling to his knees as he vomited a noxious black cloud into the air. Those two fingers never left the bucking man’s chest. The smallish exorcist was completely unconcerned. Dean fell painfully to the ground, hearing Sam do likewise, as the demon’s power dissipated with the smoke. He winced as his tailbone hit the pavement, his free hand drawing the Colt and cocking the hammer, trained on the intruder.

It stepped forward, over the body, now lying limp, as if unaware it had performed an exorcism using only two fingers and a lot of good timing. The gun pointed squarely between its bright blue eyes.

“What are you?” he hissed. He’d never seen anything like it before. Maybe once. He smothered the thought. Not the time.

Castiel’s voice returned to a more human timbre, coat flapping about his skinny legs as if pulled and tugged by some invisible breeze in the airless backstreet.“I told you, Dean Winchester. I am Castiel. I am an angel of the Lord.”

Fifty or so kilograms of skinny teenager managed to look serene after exorcising a powerful demon with a single touch. Sam looked nonplussed, knife hanging limply at his side before he remembered the gentleman, and knelt beside the limp body, checking his breath against the flat of the blade. Still alive.

“That... you’re not.” he managed to splutter, not his wittiest moment.

The three of them paused, not quite sure what do next.

Demanding proof was his first reaction, right behind ‘hide the body’, like all good practical hunters did. He knew he shouldn’t be this jaded mid-morning, but it hadn’t exactly been an ordinary day and he had quite a bit of money still tied up in today’s headlines. If they wanted to eat, they had to sell, regardless . Although he felt a little less certain about the world than when he had woken up that morning.

“Let’s split before someone calls the cops. And then,” he pointed fiercely at the so-called angel “We are gonna have a big, long talk.”

Dean picked up the knife, and walked, Sam following hesitantly and then Castiel, tagging along like some hopeful stray. He breathed, in and out, feeling his chest rise and fall as the adrenaline started to settle. The mark on his arm was itching like mad, he gave it a gentle rub. He really hated this place.

#

It was afternoon by the time they finished up, luck was on their side for once when Sam had spotted a Lady’s Society Lunch breaking up. The old biddies had cooed over Sam and... whatever the Hell it was wandering around wearing the sweet, beguiling face of a blue-eyed orphan. Dean’s eyes didn’t leave him the entire day, waiting for him to burst into flame or sprout fangs. He almost attacked when Cas had a particularly violent sneeze, Sam almost hurling a knife that was sure to put absolutely no one in danger. They may have been a little on edge, all things considered. It turned out to be a rather anti-climactic afternoon.

He grabbed ‘Castiel’ by the wrist before he could assure one of them their husband was doing very nicely in Heaven’s little barbershop. He was starving and they’d more than earned their daily bread. There was no such thing as angels. That was a fact. At the tender age of nine, hiding on the boxcars out of California, he’d decided as much. What sort of guardian angel would leave two kids stranded in New York with one parent dead and the other in the wind? If Heaven was real, it had been seriously dropping the ball on that one. But whatever this ‘Castiel’ wanted, it could clearly have already fried them at any time. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a demon. And with a considerable lack of homicidal urgency, this puzzle could wait until after lunch.

The Swedish Meadowlark didn’t boast of any extraordinary quality of liquor or company. It didn’t need to, really. It wasn’t a place one went for Sunday brunch or to meet an old friend, unless that friend was toting rock salt and iron. It was a rundown establishment even by the Bowery’s standards. Paint was peeling off the walls and the scrubbed tables were stained with decades of spilled drinks and barfights. The bluish smudge he assumed had once been the famed Meadowlark hung limply above the entrance. Dean pushed the door open, a bell tinkling somewhere. And walked into the darkened bar, several sets of eyes swinging towards them and back to their drinks just as quickly. Everyone here was armed, grizzled. Every one of them was a hunter. Castiel didn’t even flinch crossing the threshold, despite the wards, the protection, the salt and sigils.

“Boys! Good day out there?”

Ellen leant over the counter, a middle-aged woman with a tough, tired look. She wore an apron that looked stained with more than beer, her chestnut hair tied in a limp ponytail. The corners of her mouth twisted into a grim smile.

“Not so bad.” Sam answered, taking a seat at the bar. His long legs stuck out at awkward angles, Dean made a note to tease him about it later.

“Good, you can pay off some of your tab” Ellen said.

They both groaned.

The bar had been her husband’s and Ellen had done the best she could with the place to keep her daughter, Jo, fed and safe. It looked like any other mistreated waterhole in the city, except for the sigils and runes cleverly concealed behind old paintings, and the small lines of salt checked twice daily. There was a devil’s trap under the carpet, overall a setup almost rivalling Bobby’s protection on the flat. 

“This is Castiel.” Sam said, pushing him forward a little as he seemed to be looking through the paintings. He’d lost a lot of caution over the course of the afternoon, after the creature had submitted to thirty or so rounds of cheek pinching and cooing usually reserved for Sam. Nothing evil could keep that up for more than five minutes. Nothing human either. But old ladies loved a sad, clean little orphan. A clever disguise.

Dean could tell she’d been eyeing him ever since they entered the building. Her hands never strayed too far from the shotgun neatly hidden under the bar, always loaded. Given, it was unusual for either brother to bring someone with them to the ‘Lark. Her eyes narrowed. She had a hunter’s instinct, and a mother’s uncanny knack for knowing just what was going on. A dangerous combination.

“Nice to meet you Castiel. That’s a strange name you got,” she said with a look that made Dean very nervous.

“Ellen Harvelle” he nodded “Your husband misses you, but is proud of you both. You need not worry.”

Every head in the bar swivelled. Powerful as Castiel clearly was, he was terrible at making friends.

“What.” she said.

“He’s new around here. From out of town.” Sam stuttered, sensing fingers moving a little too close to concealed triggers “Ellen, could we have a word?”

Ellen nodded suspiciously, eyes never leaving the intruder. Her assistant, Ash, took over the solemn duty of pushing a rag over the bartop while she ushered them into the back room with the old stage, a remnant of better times for the ‘Lark. Once the door was securely shut she whirled, pointing a finger at Cas.

“What are you and why did you two idiots bring that kind of trouble into my bar? You want to get shot or something, Sam and Dean Winchester?”

Castiel look around calmly. “I wouldn’t allow that to happen, Ellen Harvelle, Dean is under my protection.”

“Yeah, great job you’re doing. You almost got me killed today.” Dean snapped.

Sam, as always, tried valiantly to be the voice of reason in a bar full of deluded streetkids and trigger-happy drunks. “We were attacked by another demon this morning, out in broad daylight. Castiel saved us. He uh, says he’s an angel.”

“More like an escapee from the loon house.”

“I’m not insane”, he said, almost sulkily.

“Yeah, well, we’ll see.” Dean retorted.

Ellen pulled up a chair, careful to stay as far away from Castiel as possible. Dean suspected she was carrying at least one knife on her. She didn’t hunt herself, but even Bobby wouldn’t cross her. She arched an eyebrow.

“You tested him?”

“Best we could ma’am. Iron, silver, salt, Lord’s prayer.”

“Don’t ma’am me, Sam Winchester. I don’t know what you boys have got yourselves into, but you’re gonna have a lot of explaining to do when Bobby hears. While he’s under my roof, he’s your responsibility, seeing as how he’s your self-appointed bodyguard now” She glared at Dean. That seemed unfair, Cas looked unmoved.

She sighed, her expression softening “More demon attacks though, I’ve been hearing about a lot of increased activity from my regulars, a lot of people acting strange and going missing. So, what do you know, boys?”

“Food first?” Dean asked hopefully ”Please?”

Ellen snorted. “Only time I ever get a ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ outta you lot is when something needs killing or eating.”

She grumbled threats, her back never turned as she yelled out to Ash. He came in with a plate of rolls and tumblers of, Dean was disappointed to see, plain water. Ellen shook her head as the boys dug in, turning her attention back to the angel, who watched them eat.

“You say you’re an angel of the Lord. Prove it.”

He sighed. “I am not permitted to use my abilities for trivialities, it would alert my superiors. Have faith, Ellen Harvelle.”

“I like proof. I’m a realist.” she countered.

“That is not the same thing.” he sighed.

They were exhausted, within the hour they’d tried every test they could think of between the three of them; holly and silver, mistletoe, iron, salt, verses, dead man’s blood, holy water and the Lord’s name among others. All completely ineffective.

“Well, all we’ve proved so far is you’re not a monster we know how to kill.” Dean said gruffly. The mark on his arm was filled with an uncomfortable heat. He suspected he’d torn it in the fight. Sam looked reproachful.

“I think what Dean means is, we’re not really sure where to go from here. Thanks for saving our lives...but uh, how did you do that?”

“I am sworn to protect Dean, it is my duty.” He glared at the toothpicks. “No demon can tolerate the true power of God. “

“Wait... what?” Dean tried not to spit the crumbs of the last roll everywhere “Your _duty_?”

Castiel was looking through Sam. “The protection of this dwelling is crude at best.”

“What do you mean, your _duty_? You said that before. Why is Heaven so concerned about what I’m up to?” He looked from Ellen to Sam. “I didn’t do nothing.”

“I am not allowed to say.”

He could almost feel how intently Ellen and Sam were looking at Cas , who seemed himself oblivious to the scrutiny.

“The Hell you aren’t! You’re spying on me!”

Dean stood, glaring. He felt his blood boil. Strangers walking into his life like it was some kind of peepshow. He got enough of being a nobody out of the street, without a creepy angel following him around, reporting his every move to more creepy codgers up in the clouds. He was the first to admit he wasn’t a model citizen, but a man needed his privacy.

“My superiors are already displeased I have risked our exposure to the enemy. I am afraid they would not forgive another blatant insubordination.”Castiel hesitated. “I may have, had, a different interpretation of my orders.”

“So you’re not supposed to be here?” Sam offered.

He considered that for a moment.

“That is one point of view.”

So Dean had learnt four new things about the kid calling himself Castiel. Firstly, he sure as hell wasn’t human, and was a powerful whatever he was, claiming to be an angel. Not only that, but he seemed to be pretty low in the pecking order, which meant there were more of him, and they were more powerful. And that he never gave a straight answer.

“Your superiors are Heaven...so other angels?” Sam asked. Cas nodded. “ And the enemy?”

“Hell.”

He felt an irrational fleck of relief. Hell he could deal with. They had concrete proof of Hell and its denizens in the burns and scars on their bodies. Hell could be beaten and exorcised. He waited until Ellen and Sam were deep in conversation, poring over a tawny Bible while he sat, glaring at Castiel. Usually his glares scared off the most determined vultures, but had no effect on him. He squashed down the hundred or so questions this claim had brought up. Why now? Why was Heaven only getting involved now, after letting hunters do their dirty work for hundreds of years? But there was something else that just wouldn’t stop niggling at his mind. A more pertinent question. Seeing as how the so-called angel wasn’t particularly forthcoming with answers, he wanted to make it count.

“So you’ve been watching me?”

“Of course.”

He paused.

“Like... all the time?” He wasn’t sure he wanted to confirm a certain suspicion.

“We’ve found your unique ability to get into trouble merits constant attention. Like a small child. I have watched over you constantly for many months.” Castiel replied. Damn. Now he really didn’t want to give that too much thought.

“Well don’t. So... You’re pretending to be a newsie to, what? Spy on me? Why?” he demanded.

He considered the question, “Dean, I’m here to help you. Events are about to unfold in which you will play a great part.”

“Just what I need, my own, personal guardian angel to make sure I sell all my papers in the greatest manner possible.”

He attacked the last of the food sullenly while Castiel watched on patiently.

#

He worked by candlelight, cleaning the Colt, pulling it apart and checking every mechanism. One of the first things his father ever taught him how to do. It helped him think, putting his thoughts together. Sam shifted in his sleep. Castiel had said he had duties to attend to.

_“You need to know it’ll work, Dean. A hunter’s only as good as his tools. Abuse them and you’ll end up a bloody mess in a ditch. How can others rely on you if you can’t even rely on yourself?”_

John Winchester. Sam thought he was dead, Dean could tell. He always thought his father had known everything, and what he didn’t know, Bobby could provide. He’d never thought his father could die. It called broken men, this profession. It took something from you and made you chase it. He had read the journal cover-to-cover more times that he could count. Nothing about angels, not a single word of his father’s to support Castiel’s claim. He didn’t know if he wanted to be proven wrong or right, but he just wanted some damn proof. A man can’t live on faith alone.

He didn’t enjoy thinking in these sort of abstracts, not when there was work to be done. Let Sam worry about the why. It’s not that he was stupid, he’d have been dead already otherwise. Dean Winchester just didn’t like abstracts. He was a simple man with simple needs.

But Sam believed in Castiel. That made his stomach do something strange, almost like jealousy. He took another shot of the whiskey, cheap stuff he’d bought one good night and hidden under the nightstand.

#

He woke in the blue stillness before dawn, the local rooster doing its own duty. He gave Sam’s shoulder a rough shake. His little brother grumbled something and rolled over. Dean was exhausted. He had reassembled the Colt five times, polished the knife and drank his way though half the bottle. His head pounded, a steady thud behind his eyes that made him want to curl up back under the covers.

“Good morning Dean.”

_Jumped_ would have been an understatement, as his heart gave an unhealthy jolt and there was a knife in his hand where there hadn’t been one before. Sam hated that his older brother slept with it under the mattress, but so long as he kept it on his side, he couldn’t do much. The angel sat at their kitchen table, watching him owlishly. His bare feet scuffed the floor, curling and uncurling like he was testing a hot pavement. He held a paper in his hands. He wore exactly the same clothes as the day before.

“Cas! What are you- How long have you been there?”

“Since the cock first crowed, I thought it prudent to allow you a few more minutes, you have not been sleeping well.”

Sam looked worried.

“Don’t give me that, I’m not the one who broke into our house and watched two guys I met yesterday sleep. You’re lucky Bobby’s away, or you’d be having buckshot for breakfast.”

He got up, shuffling to the basin and splashing water on his face. He looked in the mirror while Sam went another round of religious interrogation with Cas over his meagre breakfast. Last night was catching up with him. He looked tired. There was no denying Dean was handsome, he didn’t bother with modesty. It worked well for Dean, made it easier for people to trust him. His unruly hair was getting a little long in the back, and he’d soon need a shave again. Hazel eyes, full lips, strong jaw. A few freckles the girls seemed to like. A regular New York cowboy. He gave his reflection a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. Perfect. Wiping his face on the towel, he noticed Cas watching him in the mirror.

“Where are you sleeping, Cas?” Sam asked from the sink.

“I don’t sleep.”

“Ok.” Sam blinked “But where’s home? Where do you go when you’re not... protecting us?”

“I go where I am needed.”

“So you’re homeless” Dean asked a little abruptly, tired of his riddles.

Sam shot him a look. Cas’s feet stopped sweeping the floor and he looked past them, at something only he could see.

“I suppose so.”

He pulled his shirt on quickly, fixing his suspenders and checking his hair. Sam rolled his eyes.

“So you don’t sleep. But I’ve seen you eat.”

“I ate because Dean offered me food as a gift. It was pleasant, I enjoy apples.”

Dean made a note to steal more apples, biting his lip to stop from grinning. The expression when he talked about the apple, well, that was why they were partners now. He finished messing up his hair and slicking it back, adjusting his hat and undoing the top button of his shirt. Cas was watching again.

“You know what? We need to fix you up. People are gonna think I stole you or something.”

Dean looked him over, eyes narrowed. He was way too clean, not a speck of dirt or a smudge of newsprint. Just a little too conspicuous, it made the other newsies nervous. He didn’t look like he needed the job as badly as they did. Dean bounded back to the bed, looting their drawers, checking underneath the table. Sam looked puzzled as he re-emerged, recognising the clothes. He placed one of his old newsboy hats on the boy’s head. It was a little too big for him, the stiff brim flopping down over the bridge of his nose. But passable. Probably added to his charm a little.

“Stay still for a sec”, he leant in, hands winding around Cas’s neck as he tied off the scrap of fabric. A dark blue bandanna they used to play cowboys with, when Sam was little. He readjusted the tilt of the hat, stepping back to admire his work.

“Take care of these.” He grabbed an old pair of boots he’d outgrown, the toes scuffed, too small of either of the brothers. Real leather, hand-me-downs from a hunter friend. There was a deep slash across the toe of one, from a poltergeist in the Rocky Mountains. He grabbed Cas’s ankle, lacing up one boot, then the other. The so-called angel looked surprised, and slightly suspicious. He messed up his hair a little and stepped back. Still too clean, but looking the perfect picture of the lost little orphan.

“Now you look like a newsie.” He tilted his head, shrugging at Sam. ‘Sorta.”

#

Dean opened the door, barely able to contain his grin. The pennies were pulling his coat down under their weight, a hand in each pocket to silence the jingling. It wasn’t a good idea to jingle in this neighbourhood. Sam looked happy, telling him about the story he’d been reading, something about building flatirons. How each bit fitted together. Cas followed behind, seemingly listening.

“Where you ijits been?” Bobby looked up from the table, a small tower of books stacked amongst food and bottles, with a vial of holy water and an English translation of a Latin text, much of it crossed out and rewritten in his messy chicken scratch. Bobby Singer wasn’t really their uncle. He was no relation that Dean knew of, but he’d always been Uncle Bobby when they were kids. A stocky man, with a bushy beard and thick eyebrows that seemed permanently engaged in sarcasm. His face was red-tinged from liquor, and he was balding slightly. A gruff man, but an honest one, when he had that liberty.

He looked vexed. Dean was suddenly feeling less confident about their triumphant day.

“You got rocks in your heads, boys? Or just feelin’ particularly partial to the idea of being a hand-tailored demon suit?” he growled, looking up from the tome. “It’s been dark for a good few hours and you both know how things are at the moment.”

He had the decency to look a little ashamed, they’d gone the long way and Dean had lost track of the sun. He’d gotten a little distracted by a prizefight in the market square and explaining the rules to Cas. Sam had wanted to hurry back, but he’d insisted they’d beat Bobby back, after seeing the final round. Cas had stood guard beside him in his hat and bandanna, eyeing everyone. It had been good to finish early, just enjoy the day, show Cas the good parts of the city, give Sam a break.

“Y’know it’s the worst it’s been in years with these damn demons crawling all over and yer’ out making daisy chains and having sing-alongs.” Bobby growled at him.

Sam sat down at the table, looking ashamed , followed wordlessly by Cas. Bobby looked him up at down before Dean dumped the coins on the table. His eyebrows briefly tried to escape up his hairline. They slid back down as he gave Dean a suspicious look.

“You steal this?”

“Bobby” he gasped, “I resent that. It’s unkind. Uncalled for.”

“Slander.” Sam added, fighting a smile as he sensed they were getting off lightly. 

“Exactly.” Dean nodded.

Bobby rescued a bowl of soup from among the books and Dean shoved them to one side to make space, before pointing the spoon at Cas.

“Don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

“This is Castiel, he says he’s an angel of the Lord.”

Bobby snorted. “And I’m Teddy Roosevelt.”

Cas tilted his head. “You’re Robert Singer. You work in a factory that makes the pins used in train tracks but you wish to own your own smithy. You think Dean swears too much and Sam should be in school.”

Bobby shut the book, grumbling. “So this is your little guardian angel, boys. I got an earful from Ellen about it this afternoon. Cute trick that.”

He pointed a spoon at the pot.

“There’s soup if you’re hungry, all of you.”

He went back to the book, but Dean caught him watching him out of the corner of his eye, a strange expression on his face. Cas looked confused.

“I don’t need to eat.”

Bobby grunted. “Man offers you a meal, y’sit down and eat.”

Dean handed Cas a bowl and spoon. It was watery, some sort of salted meat shredded into it with a bit of turnip. His own stomach rumbled. Bobby wasn’t the best cook, but at least they got meat sometimes.

“Pass the bread, Cas.”

#

Dean stretched out across the cement of the rooftop, still cooling from the heat of the day. He liked to come up here, to think sometimes. Under the sky, where New York couldn’t lord it over him. Cas stared up, perhaps watching the clouds reflecting the eerie orange glow of the gas lamps. He liked Cas, he decided. It had taken a week or so to get him settled into the life of a newsie. He was weird, but in a good way. Perhaps Dean just had distorted standards of strange. He tried not to stare, humming a song to himself.

“Hmmm... Santa Fe...”

“Santa Fe?” Cas asked, shattering his reverie.

“It’s nothing, really. I just...” He turned his head, Cas looked interested. "I want to be back out on the road again. Head west, y’know? That where the real life is. Open skies, no carts, no city, no papes.”

He waited for Castiel to reprimand him or something but he just continued watching the clouds, an odd look in his eye. He looked slightly tired.“That sounds pleasant. I am beginning to wish I was allowed to see the world.”

He propped himself up one elbow, his heart doing something unhealthy.

“Wait, you’re telling me with your whole... wing thing...”

He’d been thinking about Castiel’s wings a little too often lately. Angels had wings, he knew that much from the lore, and a throwaway question or two the angel had deigned to answer.

“Just because I could, doesn’t mean I can.”

A cold breeze gusted over the rooftop, funnelled by the buildings. Castiel pulled his coat around himself.

“You could come with us, I guess. When we get out of here. You don’t eat much and you’re... handy with a knife. Sam likes you.” Dean said offhandedly.

“And I like Sam. ”

“Yeah, he’s a good kid.”

Cas turned his head to look at him, smiling slightly. Dean’s heart was definitely doing double-time. He pulled off his jacket and vest, fishing in the pocket of the discarded clothing.

“Here.”

He handed him the penny dreadful out of his waistcoat. It was a brightly coloured, battered cowboy serial he’d found left on a bench one day. He knew it word for word, _‘Ace and the Kid: Tombs of the Apache’_ The man on the peeling cover was a dashing sort, eyes hidden under a cowboy hat, pistol levelled at an invisible enemy as he gave the reader a cheeky grin. He rode a huge black horse. Dean smile fondly.

“Here. You need some education. At least one positive role model besides those angel jerks. Just... don’t lose it, alright? Read it while you’re staying up doing... whatever it is you do. I gotta hit the hay.”

Cas nodded, taking the book as if he were receiving a sacred relic. Dean waved over his shoulder and climbed through the sill, feeling a little light-headed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if these Author's Notes are abrupt, I'm cross-posting from LiveJournal, so at this point I've forgotten a lot of the clever and witty things I clearly had to say.  
> Ah, just a note on slang, 'papes' is papers, a 'grifter' is a conman and a 'penny dreadful' is basically a small serialised novel, kind of an old term for pulp fiction, I guess.


	3. Interlude A: A Guy Can't Catch A Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rooftop meeting and an infernal Captain of Industry.

  
**King of New York**

**Interlude A**

**A Guy Can't Catch a Break**   


“We had expected a report rather sooner.”

Castiel felt Uriel’s Grace brush against his own brusquely, as the angel stood at his side in the abandoned park. Uriel’s vessel’s brow was creased into a frown as he looked the other up and down. He was a tall black boy, a good head taller than Castiel, three or four years older than his own seventeen year old vessel. Uriel was wearing the same white shift all the Orphanage children wore. His was immaculately clean. His vessel was heavy set and sombre, taking particular care to avoid the rotten fruit and dung littering the street. Cas’s own shirt sat under his coat, slightly grubby, it was a peculiar thing dressing differently, but Dean had insisted.

“What are you wearing, brother? Surely this meat suit is degrading enough without aping their trappings as well.”

His lip curled into a sneer as Castiel looked down, feeling strangely defensive about it all. After all, Dean had chosen these clothes for him. He lifted his chin. Uriel was a fine soldier, but he was quick to forget himself.

“Come now,” his brother’s voice softened, sounding almost amused, “You are not the first to take a little joyride on Earth. They will forgive you, eventually, especially when you deliver that inbred ape.”

He stiffened. He had not been told of Heaven’s plans for Dean, why they had sent his battalion to the very gates of death to retrieve his departing soul. Uriel had taken great satisfaction in smiting the creature that had attacked the boys, a pagan weather demon, still clinging feebly to old times. But it had been Castiel himself who had gripped the wayward soul, wrapping the struggling, feeble thing in his Grace, accidentally marking Dean Winchester with his very essence.

“Dean is not—”

“Your Grace looks terrible , so pale. It used to be the brightest in the Garrison. Come back to us. You’ll shine again, brother.”

He received no reply. Castiel stood, trying to process the confusing rush of emotion he was feeling. Humans never did things by halves, never a single, plain emotion from a single cause. He looked up at the sparse collection of trees in the little park, almost hiding them from the smoggy night sky.

“I wasn’t just teasing about your Grace, Castiel, it has filthy human fingerprints all over it. You are making us all look bad, wallowing in the mud with the Winchesters. Zachariah has been informed.”

Uriel had breached the gap between them as he lost himself in thought. He was a big human, with the advantage of a vibrant link to the Host while he himself was so... off-colour. Not so much pale, as affected with a different sort of light.. Castiel did not like what Earth brought out in his comrade.

“You are wasting my time. If you implying I have deserted the work of our Father, you are sorely mistaken.” Castiel said. “I live only to serve Him.”

Uriel’s smiled, eyes bright in the fetid night air. His vessel mimicked the actions of his Grace, the hand on Castiel’s shoulder tightening like a vice.

“They’re nothing but filthy apes.” he hissed “You think they don’t laugh behind your back, watching you drag yourself after mortals like a flea-bitten cur? Your own soldiers snicker.”

“As pleasant as always, Uriel” a third voice drawled, the stranger's Grace sleek and rolling, like oil on water.

“Balthazar.”

“Last time I checked, darling” he sneered, hands in his pockets.

Uriel dropped his hand, as Balthazar leant against the iron fence, a cigarette between his fingers. Castiel understood a smile was considered a sign of human friendliness, but the way Balthazar slightly bared his teeth suggested the contrary.

“This is none of your business, you tired old hedonist.”

“On the contrary, Cas is my business, Uriel, and I am quite the businessman.”

Balthazar’s vessel had little of the height or weight advantage on Uriel’s, even sleeker and wiry than Castiel’s own. Balthazar was a gifted fighter though, fast and ruthless, if indiscrete. Balthazar fought dirty. He scratched a whisker lazily as Uriel considered his options. He blew a cloud of smoke between his lips, admiring the way it curled into the air.

“Now, if you’re quite done, Cas and I have some rather pressing issues to discuss.”

Uriel said nothing, face impassive on the human plane, but further down the street the thick glass of a gaslight shattered into sharp daggers, the Enochian phrase muttered under his breath was anything but friendly.

Balthazar smiled sweetly. “Lovely seeing you again, but the adults have to talk now.”

He snarled. “The day is coming when you won’t be so comfortable here, Balthazar. Your kind will not always be tolerated.”

He disappeared and the gaslights went out momentarily.

“Where do you find these charming individuals, Cas?” he sighed, reappearing beside him and straightening the jacket. Castiel could smell the smoke on his breath as he moved it with his tongue, exhaling like it was some form of primitive incense. Uriel’s comments, while never an exemplary model of the deep love humanity required, had never bothered him before he had met Sam and Dean. Now, he realised rather sadly, he was finding it easier to commune with humans than his own garrison. He sat down on an iron bench, weary of all these revelations. His vessel was so tired. Castiel mentally counted the hours until Dean would awaken and meet him on the stairs.

“As much as I hate to credit Uriel with anything resembling intelligence, he’s right.” Balthazar leant against his shoulder and he sighed, enjoying the contact. He blew a ring of smoke, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. “Dean Winchester’s grubby little handprints are all over you, my dear.”

Castiel turned, gripping the rough wood on the edge of the seat.

“Balthazar, I think I may need your help. I am not as strong as I once was.”

Balthazar looked as tired as he felt. He smiled, a proper one this time, that reached his eyes.

“Oh Cas, what have you gotten yourself into here? Couldn’t you have just broken a few commandments and enjoyed yourself like the rest of us?”

#

Fergus Roderic Crowley was a man of refined tastes. He liked his offices to reflect this, in mahogany, tobacco and gold. But particularly in his headlines, perched between paintings he’s taken a particular shine to. _‘FIFTEEN DEAD IN BATHHOUSE FIRE’_ sat next to a Van Gogh sketch, _‘CUT TO RIBBONS; KILLING SPREE IN FIFTH WEEK’_ and _‘WILD DOG TERROR’_ sandwiching a Monet he’d lifted out of a private collection. Everyone needed a little beauty in their lives, and a reminder of their best work, even a high-ranking denizen of Hell. He sipped at the scotch thoughtfully as he looked over _The New York Sun’s_ latest sales figures, running a manicured nail down the neat ledger.

“Randall, what is this?”

A tall thin man, with glasses twice the size of his eyes, or rather, a pathetic excuse for a demon wearing said man, quaked before his mahogany desk.

“Your profits, sir.”

“And these?” He pointed at the second column with a dangerous smile.

“ _The Bugle’s profits_ , sir.”

“Oh.” Crowley said, the sort of ‘oh’ that suggested imminent doom for unfortunate accountants.

“Pl-please sire, it’s not my fault! People just aren’t buying papers, there’s no news!”

“Randall, you are painfully dull.” Crowley smiled, swishing the brandy, “Perhaps you can be tomorrow’s headline. ‘Manhunt for Dismembered Corpse’ maybe?”  
The money was immaterial really, but Randall couldn’t comprehend that. It was about the displacement of wealth. Crowley had taken to capitalism like a duck to water. The Twentieth Century was coming, and Hell was about to celebrate. He foresaw good things for demonkind on the horizon. It was basic economics, really. Poor people were hungry people, and hungry people were desperate. And if there was one thing that oiled the wheels of infernal economics, it was _desperation_.

It was too simple really, for a demon with imagination and vision. The Industrial Age had pulled the peasants out of their God-loving pastoral stupor and into the filthy, grimy cities. And Crowley now controlled one of the biggest, most desperate cities in the New World. Every day bought more destitute and homeless human flotsam washing up on the shores of his island. New York City would be the hub of the Twentieth Century. A perfect centre for his new empire. If only he wasn’t surrounded by Americans.

“I’m a charitable man, Randall. Too charitable by far. Perhaps good-living is making me soft. So, I will give you exactly...” He pulled his pocket watch out, a beautiful gold piece, the clock face inlaid with human bone. “... two minutes to think of a clever little gem to boost our profits. Or I will let my boy here tear your essence from those mortal bones.”

There was an ominous growl from the corner, his Hellhound awakening from a nap at the mention of his name. Randall stammered, quaking visibly. It was invisible to the human eye, but the thing living inside Randall Thurston saw it only too well. Crowley turned back to today’s edition, sighing at another bland headline. That blasted trolley strike. When would the unwashed learn their place? It was definitely time for another inexplicable murder.

It had been a stroke of genius, he thought as he trimmed a cigar, an unnecessary action, but a quaint human custom. He now controlled the city’s news through _The New York Sun_ , the best selling paper in Manhattan. He controlled what the people read, what they saw, what they thought and what they talked about at their filthy little tables and pubs. He coloured their very perception of the world around them. If the Sun said the sky was blood red and the Hudson River was milk, well, his readers were hardly intelligent enough to raise their heads out of the feeding trough to check. He kept them down, but gave them a little gem of hope in some of the made-up feel-good tripe they printed, just to keep them desperate.

Because, when a man was desperate enough, he may just find himself at crossroads, or some street corner where 5th met Broadway in the middle of the night. Such a man might be willing to part with his immortal soul to feed his starving family. And a good man’s soul, or a particularly evil one, was worth more than all the profits of the _Sun_ and _Bugle_ combined.

His thoughts were interrupted by a racket in the square, he frowned.

“What is that?”

“S-Sir?”

Randall looked like he was about to expire, a rather accurate assumption. He took a noxious puff.

“That racket.”

Randall paused, a glimmer of hope shining through that Crowley may have becoming distracted. Optimistically terrified.

“The newsies, sir. Shall I tell them-”

Crowley blew another cloud of smoke. Oh, wouldn’t that be delicious? Knock the legs right out from under the common man! How had he forgotten the dear sweet children? Every penny counted, if raised the distribution price... ten percent... taxed the newsies just a little extra. Oh yes, it was good to be a demon in New York.

“No Randall, my valued employee.”

The hound raised his ears, invisible to the human eye.

“You’ve done quite enough for today.”

He snapped his fingers. Randall screamed and his pet snarled in savage glee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, 'Interlude' is kind of a strange way of putting it, but there was so much going on in the background that I couldn't address using Dean's perspective.   
> Have I mentioned how much I love Crowley? Because it's a lot.


	4. Act Two: And the World Will Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things escalate for Sam, Dean and Cas as the newspaper barons force the newsies towards desperate action and the mystery of the missing children seems to be involved.

**Act Two**

**And the World Will Know**

They were late getting to the Pen, only just beating the clamour of the circulation bell. Cas had let them sleep in again. Sam jolted awake, his head dipping again as he walked in the crush of street folk, Dean grabbed his shoulder and steered him back. They’d been hunting last night, they’d  found nothing, just hours of waiting and watching. A total waste of a night. Kids pushed and shoved in the line around them. The mood was unusually tense, what with the rumours of more people disappearing. He just hoped it wasn’t what Sam thought it was. They still had nothing substantial to chase. Dean watched the fringes for newsies he didn’t recognise. There was another rumour, of people coming back, but not coming back quite right, as if they weren’t all there. He ran his fingers over the mark. The Pen’s gates swung open and he resigned himself to another long wait.

“Hey Cas, did I ever tell you—”

He was cut off by some sort of ruckus at the booth, the word travelling down the line like wildfire. The newsies waiting behind them were restless, the ones in front furious. Sam looked pale as he turned back to the pair.

“They’re saying the price of papers just increased ten percent, it’s _sixty cents_ for a hundred now”,  he said like he didn’t quite believe it.

“No way. Ain’t possible.” Dean growled. It was just someone trying to cause trouble. It had been a rough couple of weeks and some mean sons of bitches just liked to rile the younger kids up, to take their frustration out on those lower in the pecking order than themselves. Cas looked at him speculatively.

“The Weasel-”

“Just Weasel Cas, he’s not a jewel thief or something, not yet,”

“—has raised the price.” he confirmed mysteriously.

He shook his head, “Your powers must be off this morning, Madam Fortuna. They’d never do that. Not in a million years. There would be a riot.”

But Sam still look worried, his shoulders tense, like he was about to assume the fighting stance their father had taught them. _Fists up, protect your face. Be ready for anything._ What had previously been a boisterous line was quickly becoming a stormy sea of angry youth. The thought of not being able to care for Sammy and Bobby fell like a dead weight into the pit of his stomach. He fought to the front, pushing and shoving, dragging Cas along for good measure. He’d gotten into the habit of dragging Cas around, after one too many times turning and walking straight into him. Sam followed cautiously. It had to be a lie.

“This is unfair!” A voice whined.

“This is a business” the stout manager shrugged, “The _Sun_ says to up the price, so I up it. You don’t like it, go talk to Mr. Crowley. ”

“Come on!” Dean yelled “You know this is bull, give us a break here!”

One of Weasel’s boys grabbed him by the collar. _Be ready for anything._ He lashed out with a vicious uppercut, still in a hunting frame of mind. It connected with a dull thud that seemed to echo over the crowd like a starter pistol. The mob lunged forward. His hand ached but he felt a vicious sense of satisfaction.

“Dean! Stop!” Sam’s voice was drowned out by the sounds of battle.

He ducked and lashed out again, the fight was on, the boys whipping them into a frenzy as they sensed blood. He took a nasty hit to the cheek, blunt nails dragging across his cheek.  Cas’s arms closed around his chest, dragging him backwards into the howling crowd, someone already taking his place as his opponent tried to follow them. He fought, but the angel was strong. Unmoveable. His chest heaved against Cas’s arms. He kicked him in the calf. Cas doggedly moved to the edge of the conflict, dragging him.

“Let go!”

They’d been so close to getting out of this Hellhole. He was so. damn. close. Just another couple of months and he could have gotten them out of New York. Back on the road where they belonged.

“Let go of me!” he snarled, shoving Cas hard. “I’m gonna-”

He fell forward as Cas lost his grip, and then a single hand gripped his right arm , fingers fitting snugly across his burn. The fight left him immediately. Each heartbeat felt like an hour. He almost fainted. Feeling the white light wash over him. Castiel gasped, moving back with a cry, their legs tangling as they barely managed to avoid falling over in the stampede of angry teenagers. He twisted, nose to nose, banging foreheads painfully. His lip was bleeding and his cheek was quickly becoming a dark, angry bruise. The angel looked like he’d seen a ghost. He took a shuddering gasp, like it was the first time he’d really used his lungs. He looked Dean in the eye, face flushed a little, those blue eyes burning with cold fire.

“You can’t do this!” someone screamed, their voice breaking a little at the end. All around him people were hitting things, yelling obscenities, throwing down caps and old papers. Sam pushed his way through, shoving and ducking. His mind was reeling, thinking ahead a few steps, crunching the numbers. The news didn’t look good.

“Dean.” Cas said.

“Not now.”

He ground his palms into his eyes, wincing as the bruise reminded him of the little tussle. Nobody had worse timing than Castiel. He pulled him a little closer in the crush of newsboys as the conflict spread. Before long, people were going to be looking for someone else to hit and the angel looked too calm by far. Things were going to get real ugly, real soon. Sam still hadn’t said anything.

“I’m barely feeding myself as it is!” someone screamed.

Dean felt his stomach sink. He’d promised himself Sam would never go hungry again, not while he was still alive. They’d do better than most with what he’d been saving to get them out of town. But the unfairness of it all stung bitterly. And with this many kids out on the street, the rumours were becoming more frequent of people disappearing all over the city. Readers didn’t care. Cops didn’t care. Especially when some of them turned up days or weeks later, not quite right. Things were getting worse on the streets of New York City, it was almost safer to be behind bars. Almost.

“We’ll be out in the gutter by the end of the week!”

The voices of strangers were closing in on his thoughts. He swore under his breath. There was no way Cas could have heard, but he looked reproachful. Lord’s name in vain and all that.  He should have seen the signs. Things had actually been going _well_ for the Winchesters. Things just didn’t go well for them. Things worked out, but they didn’t tend to _go well_.

“No way we’re just gonna lie down and take this! We should do something....”

His mind flickered back to the paper in his hand, that monotonous, frustrating series of headlines nobody wanted to buy. That same headline they’d sold for weeks.

‘We should strike!” Dean said.

Someone nearby picked up the word, spreading it.

“Yeah! Strike!”

“Strike! Strike!”

“Dean!” Sam yelled, looking frightened. It was terrifying how quickly the chant took hold with the angry newsies, abandoning their personal scuffles and turning their attention outwards. He knew his brother was thinking of those photos, the cops laying into burly union men with clubs and handcuffs. Somehow the focus had moved to them, he found himself at the centre of the storm. A crowd of filthy, hungry kids clamouring around him.

“STRIKE!”

Suddenly, a whistle blew outside the gates, and chaos descended upon The Pen.

‘Shit!” Dean hissed, pulling Cas and ducking his head as they coasted past the crowd of wild newsies, squeezing through the side gate before the crowd really got going. He did _not_ need police trouble, not now. Sam waved at him from the other side of the crush of bodies ahead, already out and dodging  a cart with Garth dogging his heels. The roar of the boys drowned out the police whistle. A black hat appeared at the gates, club in hand. Newsies ran in every direction, leaving the circulation yard deserted. He thought he saw a few officers he recognised. Not good. He grabbed Cas by the collar, pulling him through the group and dragging him into the narrow gap between the print shop and the baker’s. A little-known shortcut. Dean’s shoulders brushed either side of the wall.

He took a deep breath, scrunching his eyes shut and resting his forehead against the cool, grimy brick. If they caught him... it was best not to go down that dark alley of possibility. There were warrants for various aliases of his. Probably even rewards for hauling him back to the Refuge. Starving on the streets was preferable. Dean looked up at Cas, who watched the chaos unfolding outside The Pen, looking infuriatingly serene.

“What just happened?” Dean asked.

“It is beginning” Castiel said solemnly, pulling Dean back a little further as someone ran by their hideout. “The Strike.”

He grabbed his shoulder as Cas leant in, pinning him to the wall as best he could in the tight space. He hadn’t realised how strong the angel was until today, but he did nothing to defend himself against the manhandling.

“You know that’s not what I mean” he snarled, wrenching up his shirt sleeve with enough force to tear the hem.  “What is _this?_ ”

The Mark was as clear as the morning he first saw the white light and heard the sound. It made a stark contrast to his skin and the dark walls surrounding them, almost glowing. It seemed to radiate heat.  Cas held a hand out, hesitating, he swatted it away.

“Dean...”

A figure paused in the square. Somewhere further down the passageway a rat scuttled off at his raised voice.

“Oi!” The policeman bellowed, trying to squeeze past the crates and boxes towards them. He used his grip on the angel to hurl him deeper into the passage, hardly keeping his footing on the slimy pavers as the pair ran.

“Get back here, Winchester!”

Dean threw a look over his shoulder, panicked. The debris was not slowing their pursuer down.

“I put that mark there.”  Cas said in that quiet voice that seemed to carry over the noise. He’d stopped, turning to look Dean in the eye. He shoved him hard, the alleyway too narrow for both of them. The angel was blocking them, trapping them both. They needed to keep moving.   
“I don’t care! Just run!”

The policeman blew his whistle. He’d spent a night at the Refuge before, it was bad. Really bad. Worse than the streets. And they wouldn’t underestimate him this time. No ducking out while the guards dealt with a little distraction or two.

“Winchester, you thievin’ little devil, you’re mine!”  The policeman, a particularly nasty beat cop he recognised from the Tracks, crowed, stumbling over a crate.

“I had to bring you back. Your soul—”

“Run, you idiot!”

“You were dying.”

He shoved him harder still, preparing to pick him up bodily if he had to. He wasn’t going to get caught. Not now. They were so close. Dean slipped, driving into Cas, sending them both crashing. His knee smashing into brick as he landed on top of him, one hand on his chest. Those blue eyes were the last thing he was going to see as a free man, he realised.

“Yer mine, boys!”

“I don’t know how to fix it.” Castiel said dolefully.

He gripped Dean’s arm, right on the scar, and the world seemed to tilt, the hot white light blinding him and a screeching noise blotting out all other sensation. He scrunched his eyes shut, feeling a strange sensation skimming across his skin, something soft. Feathers.

And just as quickly it left. He cracked one eye open, not quite understanding what he was seeing. He blinked. They were in his room, on his bed. Cas lay placidly beneath him, hand still on the scar. He slapped it off, jumping up. Something hot and feral coiled up in his stomach. They had been in the alleyway. They were being chased. There was talk of a strike. Sam had gotten out. Cas had used his angel powers to what? _Fly_ them away?  His heart was pounding. Cas had said...

“What do you mean, you can’t fix it?” Dean asked weakly, passing out.

#

“So, are you two not talking or...?” Sam whispered, his caution not entirely demon-related. “Because that could be a problem right now.”

“I didn’t ask him to come” he said, with a glare at Cas.

 “My orders were to protect you,” Cas replied, gazing at something only he could see across the road. “I was following orders.”

The three young men squatted behind a soggy hay bale under the dark canopy of a shop-front, watching the service gate to The Pen. It was late, but Bobby was out on a job again on the West Side with Rufus. Dean scowled at his younger brother. There was an uneasy stillness about The Pen, usually so full of life, the square lit by a single gaslight lamp. Even in the dead of night, there should have been someone around, a drunk or a policeman. But the Pen sat silently between the grander apartments and stores like some sort of toadstool in an overgrown garden.

Sam sighed, sitting between them and drawing circles in the dirt with his knife tip. Dean flicked a piece of hay between his teeth. He raised a hand to rub the scar, but stopped midway, Cas was watching him out of the corner of his eye. His hand returned to his pocket. Sam sighed again, giving him The Look. Dean punched him half-heartedly.

“Damn it all,” Dean growled, feeling the scar itch uncontrollably. “Let’s just loop around and get home. Some of us actually need to work tomorr—”

Sam shushed them as the clatter of hooves and cartwheels got louder, the usual paper delivery cart pulled up roughly. The horse paced in its traces, eyes almost all white. Its owner jumped down heavily, ripping the canvas flap from the back of the cart and yelling at someone inside. There was the sound of activity as the man strode forward, straightening his uniform. The animal went mad in his presence, screaming as he drew level with its flanks. Dean thought it would break free, but the delivery worker grabbed the reigns and pulled it down with a strength that seemed excessive. Two tall men appeared out of the back, leading a well behaved gaggle of children. Far too well behaved. The boys and girls, streetkids from their tattered clothes, followed the men obediently into the candlelit rooms below. No one who’d lived on the streets would be simple enough to blindly follow strangers like that. Dean bit his lip to muffle a sound of surprise. He recognised one of them, a young girl with her long black hair done up in a braid that swung as she walked. One of the greengrocer’s daughters from Little Italy. His missing daughter. He pushed Sam’s head down further as she idly turned towards their hiding place with a blank stare. He held his breath.

They moved into the dark office, and the brothers tensed, waiting for any sort of signal. Castiel watched, eyes narrowed. His intensity unnerved Dean a little sometimes. He focused his attention instead on the tall man leaning against the cart outside, idly swinging a thick club of wood. The horse seemed to have gone into a catatonic state, staring ahead blankly. A muscle twitched under its threadbare coat. Man and horse kept their distance from each other.

Sam had had a hunch, he’d thought the recent tumult of unrest among the newsies might attract demons to The Pen, looking for trouble or just a chance to bask in the human misery. Without any other lead regarding the louder and more frequent reports of disappearances, Dean agreed. Whatever was taking people was getting brasher. Folks were angry and frightened, but too hungry to stay indoors. Sam’s instinct had paid off, but not quite in the way he’d anticipated.

The yard returned to its previous silence, except for the heavy breathing of the animal. Sam scratched a question into the dirt, Dean nodded. It was the greengrocer’s daughter alright, and he was willing to bet some of the other missing kids from the stories. Demonic possession, it had to be. But why The Pen of all places? Castiel’s eyes hadn’t left the place where the office would be, staring straight at solid brick. Dean watched him out of the corner of his eye, hypnotised by that thousand mile stare.

“They are being instructed on how to lure children away and the best places to sell your specific paper.” Cas said. He hadn’t moved but his gaze was turned on Dean now, as if waiting for something. “Hell means to replace you all with an army of possessed children.”

Dean opened his mouth but Sam grabbed him. The children passed back through the gate in two neat lines, the same blank look on their faces. Each held a stack of papers under their arms, staring forward as if completely unaware of their location. They climbed into the back of the cart and the man with the club swung himself onto the front, grabbing the reigns and wheeling the protesting horse around.

“We have to do something.” Dean hissed.

“We’re  outnumbered.”

“We have Cas.”

“We need the element of surprise.” Sam said softly, a plan already forming as the cart rolled away. “We rescue those twelve, we never find the source. People will keep disappearing. We’ll help them”, he said, gripping his brother’s arm, “Just not now.”

Sam looked far older than his thirteen years in the eerie, orange glow of the gaslight, his mind working away at something like a dog gnawing a bone, discarding the possibilities and coming to some sort of final, unpalatable conclusion. His little brother could be a brat at times, and a total nuisance, but Dean could always rely on him and his sharp mind. Sam could probably have been a solicitor or something one day, if they hadn’t been raised to the hunter life. If they hadn’t had a taste of real danger. He regretted it sometimes, and he knew Sam blamed their father for a lot of what had happened to them. He was just too young to understand.

Cas was watching Sam intently, probably reading his thoughts like a daily headline. His grim expression matched Sam’s.

“I think I have a plan” he said finally, before Dean could needle him.  “But you’re not going to like it.”

#

The place they had chosen was an abandoned cart yard. A good place, in a disused corner of the factory district, the owner had gone bankrupt in his first three months. Lots of cover, and a few boltholes. Dean and Sam had hidden out there a few times, before they’d gotten used to hunting in the city. Old iron cartwheels lay rusting against the fence and piled with other ruined fittings in the yard, forming a ring of mounds. The banking offices across the street had shut up for the night and policemen rarely patrolled this far. A mangy fence penned them in, but there was a well-known gap at the back, where some desperate souls had tried to remove a few palings for scrap. It was big enough for a thin man to squeeze through, visible from the piles but just another rusted fence from the road. Dean watched newsies file in, lit smokes or candles lighting their way. A streetlamp cast a weak glow over the yard and there was the constant sound of people tripping and cursing.

A strange-looking newsie gave Dean a wave, sitting on a particularly off-shaped wheel at the front. ‘His’ blonde hair was tucked into a cap and the kid wore a baggy-looking set of trousers and suspenders over a very loose blouse. She was lucky it was dark. Ellen was going to murder him. Jo Harvelle turned heads wherever she went. She had her mother’s ferocity, but with an easy smile and a keen will to prove herself.  Castiel was recounting something to her, probably a hunt in unflattering detail, as she smiled and nodded.

Dean turned his attention to watching the entrance. It was no secret Jo Harvelle had been sweet on him for years, but that was one boundary he wasn’t going to cross. She was like a little sister. She beckoned to Cas, readjusting the bandanna as the crowd settled, claiming their spots. It made him want to walk over and intervene. This was not good. But it was nothing compared to when Balthazar reared his blonde, lecherous head. Apparently the two knew each other. Apparently _Balthazar_ of all people was part of the angel club. Cas said very little of their history, but when he did, he spoke with fondness. That bothered Dean.  A lot. Hell, he was petty. He was only human after all.

“Dean” Sam coughed, looking a little uncomfortable and slightly amused. “I think we’d better get started.”

They walked to the centre of the clearing; newsies perched on debris around them like some strange makeshift auditorium.

“So, uh, I guess everyone’s here” Sam said nervously.

They numbered twenty or thirty in all, most faces he could place from The Pen, if not name. There were a few from The Racetrack and a pair from Central Park. . Ash was by Jo’s side, still wearing his apron, easily the oldest person in the yard. Not that he seemed to mind. He saw Garth, looking excited to be there, the surly kid with the eyepatch, Freckles, Mikey, Breech and a few others. A friend of Sam’s, Andy, mellowest kid he’d ever seen, sat to the side. Friends and enemies from The Pen. Balthazar looking smug, his constant cigarette never far from his lips. He noticed Dean looking at him and gave a lazy salute. _Angel_ Dean’s ass. Cas he could believe, but _Balthazar_ as one of Heaven’s choirboys? Not likely.

Word had travelled fast. Sam had taken over, the kid had a talent for organisation and planning. They’d sat down at the kitchen table, arguing over what to say and do. Something had to be done. It hadn’t seemed quite so real when he’d been sitting at Bobby’s kitchen table, with Cas beside him, flicking through their journal. It had just been a plan the three had shared, like a story or something.  But tonight there was a sort of excitement in the air, bordering on celebration or bloodlust. It could very well go either way. Dean could already see the outline of several clubs and knives under waistcoats and in trouser pockets. The rumours of disappearing kids hadn’t fallen on deaf ears.

“So you’ve probably heard a lot of things about what’s happening on the streets right now...”

The crowd drowned out Sam, trading increasingly alarming stories, some of them were even scary enough to be true.   
“Hey! SHUT UP!”

All heads swivelled back to where Dean glowered at them. Sam continued.

“What we’ve got to tell you is going to sound... weird. But please, just hear us out.”

The crowd quietened, more out of curiosity than anything. There were a lot of stories flying around about the Winchesters, from all over New York, some of them from almost reliable sources. Rumour was, you had a weird sort of problem, something adults wouldn’t believe and a priest wouldn’t touch, the Winchesters might sort it out for you. And nobody knew much of anything about Castiel.

“So, uh, just pay attention. Dean?”

Sam handed out the pieces of paper from the thick pile of scraps in his hand.  They’d written them out that week, sitting around the kitchen table with a candle that Cas kept burning long after it should have melted to a stub. They’d spent hours arguing over methodology and wording. How to handle the two-pronged issue of selling papers and fighting monsters.

“... I know it sounds farfetched” he finished, several kids shook their heads in disgust and disbelief but most were just desperate enough to pay attention. Nothing in their shared experience could explain the past couple of months.   
“I’m with Sam and Dean. I seen ‘em with my own eyes!” Garth yelled over the baffled silence.

“Me too!” Jo yelled, doing a fairly decent imitation of a boy’s voice. She tucked a strand back under her hat pulling it over her eyes. Ellen was definitely going to kill them. There was a general murmur, but it wasn’t aggressive.

“Just follow these instructions. You got nothin’ to lose by being careful.” Dean thundered “We have to stick together, like us street kids always have. Remind them who we are! We gotta show everyone we won’t be pushed around and we won’t be quiet, whether they’re those rich old bastards at the newspaper or scum-sucking demons!”

“Yeah!” a few people yelled, the crowd becoming excited as they snatched papers, reaffirming what Dean and Sam had explained with expert nods. He sighed, at least half of them couldn’t read. But they didn’t need literacy for this one. At least the strike side was looking up. The newsies were on a mission.

“So you want us to believe,” growled a kid Dean had fought once, a big bruiser called Spots. He’d made the mistake of making fun of his pockmarked skin and almost lost a tooth. “In ghosts and goblins? Monsters?”

Sam looked resigned. Dean wasn’t having any of this today. “You got a better explanation, pretty boy? We’ve seen some stuff.” He addressed the crowd “And I know we ain’t the only ones! Weird stuff you thought you only saw out of the corner of your eye. People not acting right. People that just gave you chills.”

Everyone started talking at once. He whistled sharply.

“Look, even if you don’t believe us, we can’t let Crowley push us around. We gotta stick together!”

He met Castiel’s eye for a second, he was giving him an odd sort of look before going back to scanning the surroundings for trouble.

“We’ll go Union, like the trolley workers! They need us divided. That’s how come they got power over us, people are easy to control when they’re alone. We know these streets better than anyone and we’re tougher than any thug or demon. We’re newsies!”

Everyone stopped. The seed of an idea was growing. He could feel Cas’s gaze on him again, and the energy of the crowd. Something was taking hold of the newsies, an excitement was brewing as the idea became a reality. Dean poured all his anger into the words and the crowd ate it up.

“We are the working boys of New York!” he bellowed.

“YEAH!”

“We’ve got rights!”

“YEAH!”

“We ain’t gonna let ourselves be stood on no more! Not by _The Sun_ or _The Bugle_! NOT BY NO ONE OR NOTHIN’!”

The crowd roared.

 “We stick together! You got your buddy’s back and he’s got yours!”

“NEWSIES UNION!”

“And what, pray tell, happens then? When they replace you.” Balthazar’s voice cut through the crowd, although he barely raised it at all. Dean got the sensation he was being looked past, that this question wasn’t for the crowd at all. “You think there’s any shortage of hungry and frightened streetrats to take your place?”

There was a nervous murmur of agreement. This was where things got tricky. Dean and Sam had had countless arguments over how to treat those willing to take advantage of their stand against Crowley, those newsies wanting to make a quick buck off the lack of competition. It made Dean’s blood boil. They had no idea. They were trying to save lives here. If this was just about papers he could let it go. Almost. Sam had begged him to let it go. Balthazar probably knew that.

“Then we’ll soak the scabbers!” Dean yelled, fist raised in the air. The crowd roared out in agreement, a little too hungry for violence. He looked to Sam and shrugged. His little brother looked a little frightened, but the tide of anger and youthful spirits would not be held back by common sense.

“No! No violence!” Sam waved his hands “We have to be better than them. We’ll spread the word to all the Newsies in town, so they know what we’re fighting for and what we’re up against! We stick together.” Sam glared at Dean, his voice barely carrying over the crowd.

Balthazar smirked, “Oh well, that’s alright then, we have good intentions to keep us honest. Carry on.”

Garth raised a spindly hand from where he sat watching. It took Dean a minute to realise he just wanted to ask a question.

“What about the demons? What if we see them? What if they come after us?”

Some people snorted, others looked interested. Now it was Sam’s turn to smile, producing a suspect looking paper bag. He pulled out a strange-looking lump, what may have once been fruit, bright red, looking like it was studded with diamonds. It glittered, catching everyone’s eye. Even Balthazar looked intrigued.

“Rock salt and rotten fruit. Keep some salt in your pockets and pick up any scraps you see. Instant demon deterrent. It won’t kill them, but they won’t stick around.” There was an excited murmur. Cas appeared at his elbow.

“Dean.”

Sam shoved the improvised weapon back into the bag, every head turned to follow Cas’ nod as a skittish looking woman appeared off one of the alleyways, a basket of flowers on her arm. Her head was craning over the fence. There was a tense moment where she lost her nerve, eyes momentarily flickering black before she scurried off. Cas caught his eye, Dean shook his head. Any display of angel powers would cause a riot amongst the skittish assembly.

Sam nodded. “This only works if we’re smart. That’s our advantage. They don’t see us, we’re invisible to everyone. Nobody’s expecting us.”

“It’s up to us to spread the word!”

He handed out paper, salt, iron, and gave advice on how to get their hands on holy water. The instructions were written on the back of wrappers and leaflets, torn from forgotten books and posters, or on butcher’s paper. Three simple commands, like a novice’s guide to hunting.  Armed with their rustic kits, Sam assigned them areas of the city to visit, giving them the names of influential newsies and other street kids, people to get in contact with, people who could read and write.

“So, we got the Bowery, the Bronx, Central Park, The Docks... I still need Brooklyn. We got to get to Gabe and his lot. We get Gabe, we got some serious sway with all the other newsies.”

Everyone was suddenly quiet, not making eye contact. Gabe was a streetkid legend, infamous for his wicked sense of humour, holding court in the shadow of Brooklyn Bridge. Even adults were scared of him. They were stories, some of them pretty weird. People who crossed Gabe met sticky ends. His boys were the toughest in all of New York, fiercely loyal and dangerous fighters. People knew better than to meddle with Gabe, even if they didn’t realise what he truly was.

“No takers?” Sam said nervously.

Everyone suddenly found their shoes and papers incredibly interesting.

“Fine” Dean said with an exaggerated sigh, “Guess me and Sam are it. Cas put on your Sunday Best, you’re coming too. Now everyone; what have we gotta do?”

“STICK TOGETHER. SPREAD THE WORD. CARRY SALT.”

#

Dean grabbed the half-finished papers in one hand, the whiskey safely tucked under the other as he stepped through the window onto the fire escape. He was careful not to wake Sam, sleeping fitfully in their shared bed.

“You should be asleep, Dean.”

Castiel caught the bottle by the neck without looking, Dean realised his other hand was hugging his waist, keeping him tight against the angel’s chest like some penny dreadful gal. He wished he’d brought his shirt with him, instead of just his pants, suspenders and whiskey. But he only had so many hands. He pushed Castiel away, a little more gently than he ought to have, repositioning his feet so he didn’t have another near call with the stairs. They were facing down Gabe in the morning, he wanted all his limbs unbroken if possible.

“Whistle or knock or _something_ man, I don’t want to drop dead of fright at seventeen.”

Cas pouted a little, taking notice of the way Dean dipped a little to the side. Here was the very last person Dean wanted seeing him drunk. He sat down heavily on the grill, propping himself up against the cool brick.

“Gimme that.”

The hunter snatched back his whiskey, taking a swig and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. The stuff was oily and foul, burning his throat and putting an uncomfortable warmth in his stomach. He offered Cas the bottle and was surprised when he accepted, taking a deep pull before letting out a little cough.

“Easy tiger.”

He took another drink, the silence between them stretched on and the buzz from the liquor made him feel a little giddy. He liked this. Time with Cas didn’t seem like something that really needed to be filled with words.

“Whatever you are, that’s the second...third time you’ve saved my neck. So, uh... thanks. I can take care of myself but it was... nice. Even if you did brand me for life.”

“It was an accident.”

Castiel was still standing awkwardly, watching the street. Dean’s neck was getting sore from looking up. He gave the coat a tug, pulling Cas down, who somehow still managed to look like he was standing at attention.

“Relax buddy, it’s the end of the century and we have perhaps the worst bottle of hooch ever dredged out of the Hudson.”

Cas smiled tiredly, Dean ruffled his hair. Maybe he’d had a little too much to drink, he was getting huggy and Cas actually seemed to be friendly. His row with the angel had taken a lot of energy to maintain, he become used to having such a patient and eager audience. And he missed Cas’s weird way of seeing things, even if he was stuck up and preachy.  He silently hoped he wasn’t about to pass out or vomit in front of an Angel of the Lord.

“Can I see your wings?” he blurted out, before his brain caught up with his mouth.

He couldn’t say it hadn’t been bugging him at night, wondering what they looked like. Just one of those dumb thoughts that liked to show up when the sun went down. That was all. Castiel actually looked a little flushed, but the set of his shoulders softened.

“We don’t generally show our wings to people unless we...” He trailed off for a bit, eyes momentarily flickering to Dean’s shoulder “...share a profound bond.”

“What?” He said. And then grinned, his mind finding its usual comfy place in the gutter. “Oh. _Oh._ Like... Showing someone your wings is like the angel version of getting it out?”

“What out?”

He smirked fondly, grabbing Cas’ shoulder for support, resting his head near his neck. Definitely drunk.

“I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

Cas had a strange smell he couldn’t place, strange but not unpleasant. It sort of shifted in his brain so he couldn’t figure it out, something... fuzzy and clean.

“You need to loosen up, Cas.” He talked into the shoulder of his coat “I’m determined to get that stick outta your ass, even if it takes the whole damn bottle.”

He pressed the mostly empty whiskey bottle into Cas’s chest.

“You drink too much, Dean” he heard a disembodied voice say near his ear, with a sort of warmth he only got from Sam and Bobby.

“You still got a stick up your ass” he mumbled, head sinking further into the trenchcoat, giving his arm a final rub before the day and America’s worst whiskey caught up with him.

#

“Brooklyn” Sam sighed mournfully as they wound their way through the docks.

Dean had woken up in bed, with a roaring hangover and no whiskey. Cas had met them on the stairs, about halfway through _Ace and the Kid,_ for at least the seventh time. No papers to sell meant they had the daylight hours to themselves. Castiel had been waiting patiently outside, his nose in the book. He tongue poked out between his lips in concentration, shoulder hunched over. Dean swallowed. He was fairly sure he could just angel all the information of out it, but he seemed to be enjoying the old-fashioned method.

The salt air blew over the harbour. The masts of boats rose out of the water like a forest in autumn, an occasion forest giant looming in the shape of a steamboat or ocean liner. They moved past the crush of exhausted immigrants and antsy police officers to less populated berths as the ships and their passengers thinned out. The dock workers left them to their own devices, too used to Gabe’s boys. They’d seen a few already, yelling from the tops of palette piles, harassing them with catcalls and obscenities. No doubt they were expected. And not entirely welcome perhaps, considering the Winchester’s history with Brooklyn.

“Boys!” Somehow they’d found themselves on a noisy pier in the labyrinth of crates, rope and boxes. All three jumped, disorientated and groggy, despite the sun and stink of the river. Dean went to draw his weapon, Sam placed a hand on his arm. Cas dropped into a fighting stance. “Now _this_ is a pleasant surprise!”

Twenty pairs of eyes glared down from the towers of palettes and amongst the ropes, Dean returned his knife to his coat, palms in the air. There was a certain way of doing things out here. Gabe was a smallish kid, fifteen or so, with a kind of charisma to him. An individual totally confident in his ability to charm others and who knew something everyone else didn’t. He dressed well, in candy-coloured pastels, like some sweet-shop gangster. His hair was slicked back and he seemed incapable of staying still for more than a few seconds.

“You would not believe the things I’ve been hearing, _reading even_ , about you two.” He strode towards them, waving a scrap of paper in the air. He thought he might have been the back of a food label. Dean recognised Sam’s neat hand-writing.

He nodded to the gathered crowd.

“It’s fine lads. I’m fine. Take the afternoon off. Enjoy your youth! Off with yas!” He smiled as everyone suddenly decided they had much more pressing places to be.  “Lovely of you both to drop by. You’re a sight for sore eyes, really. My, how you’ve grown, Sammy! To think you were only eleven the last time you boys tried to kill me... Precious memories.”

He flickered out of sight for a second, reappearing next to Castiel.

“And what’s your name, handsome? Have we met before?”

Cas’s eye narrowed. The lollipop stick in Gabe’s mouth flicked from one side to the other. They seemed to be having some kind of creepy staring contest. Cas finally blinked and Gabe smiled, lazily tilting his head back to Dean with a wink.

“Cas, right? Oh the stories I’ve heard, boyos. The stories I’ve heard.” 

He patted Castiel on the cheek, who jumped back, like he’d been burnt, eyes wide. It did nothing to improve Dean’s mood. The thing calling itself ‘Gabe’ was a Trickster, ancient, powerful and pagan. It had settled itself in New York, adopting stray kids into his little gang as he held court on the docks. Dean was surprised Gabe wasn’t more afraid of Cas, what with the whole Pagan-Christian tension. Then the Trickster had never been conventional, managing to talk his way out of a staking at the behest of his fiercely loyal gang.

Dean pulled the knife, Sam held a peculiar looking piece of the wood.

“Oh, don’t be like that Deano. I’m not hurting him, and you didn’t come here to hunt little old me.”

“Don’t push it, Trickster. We got a stake with your name on it.”

“Dean. That won’t work.” Cas’s voice seemed slightly stricken, causing Dean to pause. People, as a whole, didn’t seem to concern the angel, most he downright ignored, but the Trickster’s effect on him was unnerving at best.

“It’s ok Cas, we’re—”

Gabe’s face darkened. He snapped his fingers, Cas coughed silently, clutching at his throat. Wagging a finger as Dean lunged forward, the Trickster swatted the knife out of his hand. He turned to Castiel, who looked back, furious and mute.

“Hush now, no time for idle gossip. What can I do for you, boys?” he asked sweetly.

“We need your help.” Sam stepped forward, hands on hips “With just us, we can’t rally everyone. They won’t listen to us. But you, you’re a legend around here. If you put your weight behind us...”

Gabriel chuckled, walking a circle about the group, hands folded behind his back.

“It’s a fine sentiment. Really heart-warming. But I gather you’re aware by now it’s not one just the big boys on Wall Street you’re up against.”

Sam nodded and Gabe produced another sweet out of pocket, replacing the lollipop.

“Then you’re also aware how dangerous this is. I got a lot of capital tied up in Brooklyn. You’re asking me to risk exposure for some daft little idea you two got between you. How do I know you lads won’t run when the going gets tough and leave me holding the baby?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. He couldn’t believe it. The Trickster, a man who wore a hundred faces rather than confront his pursuers, was calling them yellow.

“You want me to prove it, hot stuff?” he growled.

Gabe paused. “Pretty much. I’ve got more to lose than either of you muttonheads if this falls through, I got my boys to think about and there’s some pretty unhappy customers on the island who’d like a chunk of my hide. So, no thanks for now.”

 Dean snarled in frustration, looking for something to punch. Preferably something Trickster-shaped.  Castiel gave Gabe an evil eye he returned with a broad wink.

“It’s simple boys, show me what you’re packing and if I like the goods you’ll have the might of Brooklyn behind you. If not... have fun chasing your tails!”

He snapped his fingers, disappearing off the wharf with a chuckle and a small snowstorm of sweet wrappers. The west dock was deserted, except for the trio and a hot wind blowing off the water. Dean looked at Cas questioning, he simply shook his head.

“Well,” Sam said glumly “That could have gone better.”

#

The silence should have tipped them off, winding through the dearth of boxes and tenements between The Bridge and home. They had tried to beat the sun, and failing that, to get back before Bobby. Frustrated by the weight of their failure, they hardly took notice of the gathering shadows. Dean kicked at an apple core as Sam stopped to pass out some spare copies of the Street Journal, as they’d begun calling it, to a bunch of kids playing ball, answering a few questions.

Castiel walked by Dean’s side.

“I had not expected to see another brother of mine living so comfortably amongst your kind.” He seemed to have regained his voice.

Dean turned, lost in thought. “Huh?”

“Gabriel is no pagan. I thought the name may have made it obvious.”

“No way.” Dean stopped “No. Like... ‘sent to Mary to congratulate her on her good news, trumpet blowing’, _Archangel_ Gabriel?”

Cas nodded.

“So I tried to stake an Archangel?”

Cas nodded again.

“Oh that is _ace_.”

Sam caught up with them, looking elated. He was really good at all this Street Journal stuff, finding ways to get the information out to the newsies and street kids. Just had a knack with people. Dean was glad, he hadn't seen his brother this involved in something since they'd found themselves stranded in the city. He was young, he adjusted better than Dean, but still, it was hard.

A movement caught his attention. Three shadows stirred on the dark side of the street, one huge and bulbous, another lithe and womanly, and the third a lumbering mass of muscle. Grinning and flashing black eyes. 

“Hey Cas, now would be a really, really good time for some angel power.”

The closest one lunged, swiping at Dean as Sam struggled at the other end of the alleyway with his own attacker. Bright light and screams filled the darkness of the alley as Cas darted forward, lunging at the biggest.

"Hello boys."

The voice was smooth, with clipped British vowels. It sounded like money. The remaining shadows parted quickly to reveal a stocky gentleman with a hungry-looking glint in his eye. Dean had seen that mean look before. The intruder stepped around a pile of scraps, careful to avoid the gutters. He was clean shaven, and wore the most expensive-looking suit to ever grace the alleyways of the neighbourhood. Not that any street kid with a lick of sense would pick him as a mark. He just looked wrong.

They moved into formation. It surprised him, looking back, how quickly they’d come to have a formation, the three of them. Sam tensed, guarding their back.

"Dean."

"You must be Castiel" the man said, "We've all heard so much about you."

One of the demons sniggered.

"I must admit, I was surprised to hear of an _angel_ slumming it amongst the cattle."

Crowley shrugged as Cas answered him with a steely glare. The gentleman seemed completely unperturbed, if anything, he seemed encouraged.

"And Hell's favourite pair of uncomfortably close brothers, the Winchesters. Judging by the surly, vacant expression you must be Dean. And the tamed behemoth would be Sam."

Well, that answered his first question.

"And you are?"

" _Sir_ Fergus Roderic Crowley."

It took a minute for the name to register properly. Crowley waited.

"The newspaper guy?" Dean asked Sam.

Sam nodded.

"You're a demon."

Crowley smiled patronisingly, stowing his shooting stick under one arm and performing a mock bow. "Not just any demon. King of the Crossroads. Soon to be King of New York."

The other figures fanned out. Dean recognised the flowergirl from the first Union meeting. She sneered. He made a rude gesture. Cas grabbed his shoulder, chest pressing against his back, breathing in his ear. He tried not to shiver and tensed, he knew what was coming next.

"Not so fast, if you please. Nobody likes a tease, _Cas._ We both know you're little better than they are right now. You can't even heal yourself. All these exorcisms and hijinks, they've taken it out of you." He smiled, turning to Dean. "It's about time you got a fresh horse, boys, this one's about to drop."

He couldn't help but steal a glance back for a second. The angel did look awful. He was filthy, wild-looking, with the dark outline of a bruise on his cheek. He needed a shave and a bed. The hand tightened.

"I'm still strong enough to smite vermin." Cas hissed

"Yes, that's quite enough of the vermin talk, thank you. I'm merely here to deliver a friendly warning. To offer you a deal, if you will."

He snapped his fingers and Dean flinched. A set of overstuffed armchairs appeared in the alleyway, somehow sitting like every inch of them was stuffed with pure menace. Crowley lowered himself into the largest one, as the flowergirl poured him something thick and steaming from a silver pot. He gestured at the remaining seats lazily. No one moved.

“I’ve never known an urchin to pass up free food, but probably for the best. Poisoning is such an unpleasant death. "

He lazily crossed one ankle over the other, losing the smile.

"You boys have pluck, I like that. Well, no, I hate that. It irks me. But it seems a waste to kill you when we can both profit from this little situation. I'm a crossroads demon, it's my nature. So instead of shredding you apart and using your souls for napkins, I will make you very comfortable." He turned to Dean, the corner of his lips teased upwards "I can get you out of here. Anywhere you boys would like... London maybe, Vienna, Boston... Santa Fe."

Cas was standing far too close to him, he could feel the coarse material of the bandanna rubbing against his neck. He’d seen him pick up on the name, Dean wondered if he was reading his thoughts for any sign of doubt.

"All of you. Sam, Dean, Robert Singer, Ellen and Joanna Harvelle. Even your little pet here. One big happy family." Crowley drawled.

They were being watched then, maybe even tailed. He didn't know for how long, but Crowley had to have someone close to him. But there was no way he could know about Santa Fe. Only Sam and Cas knew about that. He cocked the revolver, but didn’t raise it.

“All you have to do,” Crowley said, taking a lazy sip, “...is to stay out of my way. Surely this little crusade of yours isn’t worth all the trouble you know I can make for you.”

"Go to Hell."

Crowley sighed, a teaspoon twirling in his cup of its own volition, just a little too fast.

"Really? You _really_ want your last words to one of the most powerful demons currently on Earth to be 'go to Hell'? A bit redundant really."

Cas snarled something as the pair of figures drew closer. The glass of a gaslight shattered behind them.

"Yes, well" Crowley took another sip, looking amused, "I'm not fluent in Enochian, but I'm sure that wasn't as vulgar you think it is. You should try it, might loosen you up a little." He set the cup back on the saucer. "Just remember my offer stands. It's not _my_ friends they'll be scrubbing out of that hideous-looking carpet at your little clubhouse."

He stood, tipping his hat as his eyes parsed black, disappearing in a sulphur-smelling second, with his pristine furniture and tea service.  The pair attacked as one. Low ranking demons but well-armed, the flowergirl drawing a wicked-looking carving knife from her lavender basket. The bulky one was a monster, huge, the blood-stained apron and meat cleaver pronouncing the body's former owner as a butcher. The girl tried to slash Dean's face, he ducked, blade passing by his head, fumbling with the Colt in such close quarters. Sam managed to splash holy water in the butcher's eyes, his bulk separating Dean from the others as he stumbled into the wall.

"You shoulda taken the deal, boy." he boomed, the holy water eating away at his skin. "I'm gonna serve you up with the resta’ tomorrow's offal. Feed you to all your little friends."

His second swipe didn't quite miss, the tip slashing into Sam's shirt and skimming into his chest, the force throwing him back. The butcher turned on Dean. Sam leapt up, sinking the silver knife into a hunk of the demon's shoulder, driving him back from his brother.

"Dean!"

Cas had managed to weave past the butcher, but the girl was waiting. She lunged, pulling him to the ground and twisting his arm as he fell. He landed awkwardly, her boot slamming his forehead into a paver. She sat on his back, carefully pinning his hands behind him, running the knife across his ribs with a childlike concentration for her task.  He was still beneath her muddy skirts, lavender strewn around them. She balanced the tip of the vicious blade against the small of his back, eyes never leaving Dean.

"Want me to carve your boyfriend a new pair of wings?" She grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking hard enough to make him wince. Putting the angel between herself and the loaded revolver. "Or should I just cut the crap and bleed out the little lamb?"

The angel opened one eye weakly, his forehead bleeding. Dean swallowed. Shitshitshit. He thought he might have even looked scared. Cas shouldn’t be this easy to down, even taken by surprise.

The demon laughed a young lady's laugh, bubbly and bright, but sounding so wrong. It turned into a gurgle as the knife handle protruded from her throat, the momentum sending the limp, stringy body into the shadow of the wall. Sam stared after it, horrified. Cas fell against the twisting form of the butcher, eyes glowing as he touched two fingers to the man's ankle, exorcising him.

He couldn't move.  Danger was a mere fact of his life, death a necessary evil. But they'd almost killed Sammy and Cas. Just like that.

"Nice throw" he said blankly.

Sam nodded, not taking his eyes off her. He could just make out the handle of the knife in the dark. Cas was having trouble staying upright, slipping and catching himself in a dark puddle. He grabbed him around the shoulders before he could fall again into the mess of blood, water and God knew what else, feeling the gutter water soak his boots. Cas's coat was torn and his head was still bleeding. His weight slumped violently against Dean's, almost sending them both pitching backwards. Sam grabbed the back of his coat, steadying them.

"It hurts." Cas sounded surprised, as his head slumped forward and his legs gave way.

"Cas? Keeping talking to me, Cas."

He shook him, unable to see his face.

"You two are... loud. Verbal communication is so primitive." Cas mumbled weakly.

Sam managed a half-smile, tearing his gaze away from the shadows. His eyes were a little shiny.

"Ok, so I'm guessing the Angel Express is out of the question." Dean said brusquely. A little too relieved.

"I can walk."

"No you can't" he sighed.

Cas paused, before mumbling into his collar. "No. I cannot walk"

Sam almost looked like he could laugh. Dean gave him a threatening glare. Good, he needed Sam's head in the game. He was never going to hear the end of this. Dean rolled up his sleeves and handed Sam his cap, tucking the gun in his waistband. He hoisted the angel's weight against his chest, one arm around his shoulder blades, the other under his knees, like a groom carrying his bride.

"How come”, he asked, adjusting Cas’s arm around his neck, heart still racing, he was far too light for his height and age. “...every time we meet a magical, teleporting newsie I'm the one that ends up carrying him?"

#

“Geez Cas, you’re a bloody mess” he said softly, as the angel huddled close to his chest, looking dazed.

Bobby’s washroom was a little worse for wear, mostly used to store coal and hunting gear during the winter. Something was growing on the yellowing walls and the candle sputtered a little as air escaped in through cracks in the sill.

The angel had taken the brunt of the fight on their end. Castiel had been their wild card, the newsies’ secret weapon, but Dean was beginning to realise his limits. The angel couldn’t exorcise without getting in close and he wasn’t as fast as the first day they’d met. He propped him gently against the wall, brushing a strand of hair off his sweaty forehead. _“A hunter’s only as good as his tools._ His father’s words came back unbidden as he fiddled with the matches bitterly, keeping a hand on his friend’s knee to steady him. _“How can others rely on you if you can’t even rely on yourself?”_

 Dean knew he could be a bastard, and sure, ol’ Blue Eyes had been a means to an end originally, but Cas had grown on him, occupying some frightening place between tool, ally and intimate. Blood caked his chest as the angel slid weakly to the ground, pulling out the paperback in dismay. The cover was soaked red, slashed down the front.

“Sorry.”

Dean picked up the sodden book, placing it on the washbasin.

“I’ll let it slide this once, pal.” He heaped some supplies on the stool he’d positioned in front of the basin, filling their iron tub with water. The tub was one of the inexplicable mementos of Bobby’s past life, one of a few things that didn’t seem to fit in with the lifestyle of a lonely hunter.

 Sam was guarding the door, treating his wound at the kitchen table. He’d been adamant they set up a guard, an edge to his voice Dean couldn’t quite read. That worried him. Bobby was at the Lark. It had snuck up on him, Cas’s ...whatever this was. He didn’t really know how to deal with it. Dealing with Cas was different than dealing with Sam. The angel was watching him wearily.

“Geez, look at that. They did a number on you, man.” He lifted his arm like he was a ragdoll, checking the cut across his ribs, blood sticking the shirt to his skin. He ducked down, letting the angel lean on his shoulders as he unbuttoned his shirt. He gently pulled it off, lifting it over his narrow chest. Leaving the bloody patch until last. Cas made a gasping noise as it came loose.

"Beaten by a girl, I'm seriously going to have to reconsider your Union membership."

“I hardly see how her gender is relevant” he said weakly.

The coat under one arm, Dean stood in front of him, checking. Bruised, battered, filthy, but alive. The Winchesters make it through another day. _Huzzuh._ He was a little skinny, his body starting to feel the effects of street life. He looked to be about sixteen or so, if he had to guess. But there was still a softness to Cas he hadn't seen on anybody living hard. He couldn't help but stare a little, those collarbones and the lithe confident energy, like a faint glow. The only thing hinting at the enormous power contained within. He felt his face heat up a little. Cas was still wearing the bandana he'd given him. His heart jumped a little, doing a strange, shuddery... thing, like a wet dog shaking itself.

"You ain't going to be able to sell papes and win girls’ hearts looking like this."

_Yeah, right._

"What use would I have for-"

"Just get in the tub, alright? Here..."

He pulled him close, unwinding the blue cloth. Cas's head followed his fingers, his knuckles almost grazing his nose as he drew back quickly. The scrap alone seemed to still be in immaculate condition. Cas was still watching him. He spun on his heels, a clumsy attempt at modesty from the infamous Dean. He wasn’t ashamed of his reputation but this was different.

"Right, so uh, pants off and in you go. Into the tub. I'm gonna grab some soap. Over here."

This shouldn't bother him. He wasn't exactly new to this. They really didn't have the luxury of social graces down on Skid Row. And he'd had men before. He was well aware he liked both, not that it was anyone’s damn business. Sure, you could get locked away for that sort of thing, but nobody really cared what a streetrat did.  Maybe he just liked sex, he thought bitterly. A Hell of a lot more than he liked people at any rate. But this wasn't just anyone he'd taken a fancy to. This was Cas. His Cas. He was supposed to be some sort of celestial, incorruptible...thing. He was supposed to be the Good Guy. Yet here he stood, filthy and bloody and tired. Dean heard unsteady splashing as the other settled in, letting out a deep groan. He grabbed the cleanest looking washcloth.

"So when were you gonna tell us about the powers thing?"

Cas leant against the rim, staring curiously at the bubbles. The water was already tainted a slightly muddy colour. 

"I would have said as much, if you'd asked." he said simply, running his fingers through the suds. The soapy water ran across the palm and down his wrist, making tracks in the grime. “Being isolated from my brethren has weakened me.”

  _I'm going to Hell_ , he thought glumly, noting the way a cluster of bubbles dribbled down from the hollow of his throat.

"Very doubtful" Castiel mumbled, drawing a strange pattern in the bubbles.

Dean jumped. Oh, he did not need anybody hearing his thoughts right now, especially not Castiel, Angel of the Lord etcetera, etcetera. Cas almost looked guilty as he concentrated on his soapy inscriptions.

"Leave a man his thoughts!"

"I was reassuring you. I am not _reading your mind_ , Dean. It does not work like that."

Great, he was too battered to walk but still alive enough to argue over technicalities. That had to be a good sign.

"Alright Madame Fortuna. Just stay out of my head." He said a little desperately.

"I didn't—"

"Well, whatever you're doing, _don't_. Promise me."

Cas looked up, a little put out. He was slightly relieved the angel's enthusiasm for bubbles had prevented any awkward situations from coming up so far.

"But what if-"

"If I need you, I'll call you."

He swore the angel didn't blink at him for a full minute. Just staring like he could see through Dean's soul. He probably could. He didn't like that idea. But then, maybe he just wasn't used to having to make these sorts of decisions without a little Heavenly assistance.

"I promise I shall not use our bond to look into your mind."

"Or Sam's."

"Unless you ask me to." he added helpfully.

"I'm not going to... alright, yes. Yes. Now promise."

Cas stared at the bubbles for a minute, Dean thought he might be falling asleep.

"Yes. I promise. But do not expect me to get your... jokes."

"Good."

He spat on his hand, offering it to Cas, who sighed, spitting on his own clumsily. He squeezed Dean's. Close enough.  He pulled off his own shirt, not wanting to get it any more dirty than is was already. Castiel’s eyes fixed on the burn mark.

“Oh.”

“Oh what?”

He put a hand on it before Dean could stop him. A shudder racked his whole body at the feel of a stranger’s touch on the sensitive skin. Dean watched, as Cas’s hand fit snugly over the top of it, fingers spread as if gripping him. He felt that familiar heat, and the angel looked a little more alert, watching him closely.  Dean coughed a little awkwardly, his mind mentally taking apart the Colt to keep from thinking about the soft hand and the way the soap bubbles weren’t quite covering Cas’s stomach and hips.

“You don’t believe it, but there is so much good inside you. I don’t know why I was charged with saving you, Dean Winchester, but I know it was the right thing to do.”

Dean shrugged his hand off, leaning in with the washcloth to wipe a smear of blood off his cheek.

“Save your energy, bud. I know what I am and what I’m not” he said softly, rubbing some of the suds through his hair. 

Cas gave him an exasperated look. “It would be a lot easier to convince you if you hadn’t made me promise to not use our bond.”

“Welcome to humanity, kid” he said, leaning in just a little too close, wondering just what was involved in _convincing_. Close enough to get a deep breath of that strange, clean scent he couldn’t place. “It’s a bit of guesswork and a lot of apologising. No mind reading.” 

He tapped him on the nose with the washcloth to emphasise the last point. Cas’s solemn look was not quite helped by the way his nose twitched.  There was something about that tiny motion, so Goddamn _human_ and uncontrolled and uncalculated that broke him. He leant forward over the tub, the bubbles brushing against his bare skin and kissed Castiel, tasting that scent on his lips. He held on a little too long, eyes closed, the angel’s fingers back on The Mark as he made some kind of surprised noise. Dean pulled back, caught in the wide-eyed gaze of Cas, feeling like a complete idiot.

 Cas looked tired and confused and a little lost, like he’d been collecting emotions and wasn’t sure which one to use first. Dean felt like a complete selfish asshole, a feeling that twisted itself around his heart and started to squeeze. That Cas had to be this broken before he could admit to himself the simple truth of the past couple of months. That he put Castiel of all people, in this situation. He held his head in his hands and groaned. 

“Dean.”

He groaned again.

“Dean. Stop that.” 

He felt Cas’s hands around his wrists, pulling apart his fingers so they were staring at each other. The angel’s pupils flicked from side to side, trying to read something in Dean’s face. He sighed and leant forward, pressing his lips against Dean’s, tipping his head slightly but not quite getting the right angle.  It was a longer kiss than Dean’s, like he was savouring the sensation. Dean reacted without thinking, tasting that uniquely Cas... whatever it was.

“Just so we’re clear,” Dean said a little breathily, pulling back, hardly daring to ask, “You get that kissing is generally what people do when they’ve got...” He trailed off, not quite sure he knew what to say. Cas waited patiently. He really was at a loss. “ ... particular kinds of feelings...about each other...” he finished lamely.

“I’ve watched humanity for millennia, Dean.” Cas replied in what may have almost been wry amusement, “That observation has occurred to me.”

“Oh.”

“Oh.” Cas agreed, looking battered but happy.   

#

Dean had stayed awake most of the night, alternating between leafing through the journal and quietly turning his head to look at Cas. He had been curled up, hair ruffled and damp, wearing one of Dean’s old shirts, occupying his side of the bed. Sam snored next to him, his chest bandaged but otherwise alright.  Bobby had come home even later than usual, raising an eyebrow silently when Dean pointed the Colt at the open door, tense. His face grew graver and graver as Dean recounted the encounter with Crowley in a low voice.

Cas padded along beside him as they made their way to The Pen. He wore one of Dean’s spare shirts, the sleeves rolled up, showing bandages and bruises. Sam thought it might be a good idea if they covered up, but scars were a mark of honour on the street. You wore them to show you weren’t scared of getting hurt, your own legacy of fights to stay alive and stay fed.  He nudged Cas’s shoulder as they walked.  Maybe that’s what Gabriel wanted, to see their scars.

Officially, it was the second day of the strike, and Dean had been expecting a motley crew of Union members, waiting for the circulation bell and staring down anyone foolish enough to try and buy papers.   Not so. There were over a hundred of the boys, from neighbourhoods all over the city, dressed for work but decidedly paperless. Someone had set up a craps game on the sidewalk and there was a fog of tobacco smoke and cursing. 

He felt the crowd’s attention shift as one as someone, he suspected Garth, yelled their names over the crowd.

The three of them stood at the edge of the square; Sam, Castiel and Dean, battered and tired and dazed, and the newly founded Newsies Union of New York waited.

Dean looked at his brother and his angel, grinning wickedly, raising a fist to the sky.

“Crowley may own the world, but he don’t own us!”

The Union roared. There were strangers all around them, clapping their backs and roaring slogans. He pulled Cas to his side, hooking an arm around his elbow as Sam tried to answer every question he could.

The circulation bell clamoured above them, one of Weasel’s boys spewing profanities as he darted back, a rotten cabbage nearly taking his head off.

Newsies climbed the gates of The Pen, surprised when something shook loose, swinging inwards as the mass surged in, ready to cause mayhem, looking for a golden opportunity to cause Weasel grief.

The group moved inside the Pen, enraged by the attack on their own and the re-emergence of the swarms of scabs. The crowd was growing larger and angrier, even without the support of Brooklyn. Kids hoisted misspelt placards, frightening the cart horses and barricading the roads in and out of the courtyard. All the regulars were crowding around, hollering and cursing. Throwing fruit at passersby, especially those sticking to the outer edges, trying to keep out of sight. Anybody suspicious found themselves bombarded by overzealous newsies.  Copies of the Street Journal were traded and read aloud, becoming a kind of streetkid manifesto. The word was spreading and the fight was escalating, no longer a strike but a full-blown war. 

Dean grabbed Cas, forgetting to be gentle for a bit as he made a beeline for the hut, intent on climbing to the top for a better viewpoint of the madness, from there they could see everything coming their way. He often attempted the feat, only to be caught as he was dragged down by whichever Delancey was on guard that day.

Someone got a hold of spare papers, shreds of newsprint showering through the air as they marched through the yard, haranguing the unfortunate newsies still holding out on the Union. Weasel bellowed up at them, slamming the shutters down and yelling as rotten fruit splattered against his pristine windows. 

He laughed, enjoying the chaos.

“Dean!”

The iron gates slammed shut as men poured in through the side gate. Full-grown men with clubs and the muscles of draft horses. Some kids tried to climb the front gate, only to be pulled back down into the chaos, trampling each other and screaming.

‘Sam!”

Sam was in the middle of it all, trying to grab some of the younger kids and steer them towards Weasel’s hut. A club glanced off the side of his head and he went down, sinking into the chaos. Dean plunged off the platform, barrelling into his brother’s attacker. God, they must have had bounties on them. He sunk a fist into the man’s gut, almost breaking his fingers against solid muscle. Kids and adults churned around them, fighting tooth and nail in the Pen.

“Two Winchesters? This has to be my lucky day!” his opponent crowed, steadying himself and spitting out a stringy glob of blood. Garth launched himself onto the man’s back, pounding with his fists like a skinny Beserker. He dropped Dean momentarily, who got an arm around Sam, trying to drag him out of the fight. Cas appeared next to him, looking worried.  Garth lost his cap somewhere in the fray, and dashed away as a particularly vicious bite left his opponent charging after him, cursing.

 “Do your guardian angel thing, Cas! I gotta get the others.”

He weaved between the fighting, feeling disconnected from it all. He wasn’t sure when he’d started trusting Cas with his own flesh and blood. Kid couldn’t even save his own ass. It was like the whole damn city had become a battlefield over the past month. Someone swung a cudgel at his head and Weasel bellowed encouragement.  People were screaming on both sides of the gates. Nobody was getting in or out, the cast iron structure shored up by Crowley’s hired muscle, lashing out at anything unfortunate enough to get near.

“You ladies look like you could use some help!” A voice proclaimed from the rooftop, its owner standing like an Old West sheriff in pastel. Gabriel’s newsies surrounded the rooftops, armed with slingshots and knuckledusters, some jumping into the fray, forcing the thugs back through the side door, setting on the main gates from outside with the practiced ease of professional burglars. Slowly the thugs retreated, leaving a motley crew of the battered and bleeding sitting in the dust, propping each other up as they tried to recover from the blitz attack. Crowley’s boys scattered, the scabs making tracks similarly.

They looked up. Sam leant on Cas’s shoulder, dazed and bleeding, but tame compared to a hunting injury. Dean stood with his boot on some thug’s chest.

“Winchesters, you started the party without me!”  Gabriel yelled, grinning like a madman.

#

He looked about the semi-darkness of the room, the thick brick draining out most of the noise upstairs. A perilous looking set of stairs led from the back of the bar to the cellar. The air was thick with damp, tobacco and the scent of burning wax. The talk had mostly died down, their guests looking from Sam to Dean expectantly. Cas sat by his side, watching him out of the corner of his eye. At least he was attempting to be subtle.  Dean tried to hold back a little of the excitement bubbling in his chest. He was seventeen years old after all, a man, and not some kid playing Cops and Robbers out under the bridge. The tables were set with candles and the occasional odd gas lamp, flickering off the faces of the assembled newsies. New York’s young barons.

With Ellen’s reluctant permission, they’d pulled a bunch of heavy tables down into the ‘Lark’s cellar, lining them end to end so everyone could fit. Balthazar sat at the opposite end meeting Dean’s eyes. He wasn’t smiling. The others, human and angel, circled each other like wary dogs, some outwardly confrontational. There was a lot of bad blood and history between the various gangs and newcomers were regarded with suspicion. The Bowery boys, the kids from The Track, The Park, Bottle Alley, Little Italy and The Bronx, The Pen and Brooklyn. Even a sly-looking customer claiming to be boss of Coney Island.

Sam cleared his throat and the last murmur of voices died away. The surface was littered with scraps of paper and tobacco ash, sticks of charcoal and the stray bottle of ink, stolen of course. Attendees had turned out their pockets, surrendering knives and slingshots, rocks and sticks.

“So Buffalo Bill, you got us here, and I’m guessing it’s not to start a Gentleman’s club.” Gabriel said.

His chair rocked back on two legs, lollipop stick swinging to a beat only he could hear. Garth sat across from him, looking very nervous indeed. Jo snatched the paper from between his chewed nails, placing it back on the table.

“We want to talk. Everyone at this table knows what Dean and I are. What we do. We hunt the things that shouldn’t be. And you’ve some idea what Castiel, Balthazar and Gabriel are, either through rumour or what you’ve seen with your own eyes.” Sam paused, “So when we tell you that you’re all in very serious danger, we mean it. We’ve got no allegiance with your gangs, no hidden agenda.  We’ve all got a lot of lose by sticking our necks out like this.”

The heavy cynicism almost doused the candles. Castiel gave both angels a warning look.

“We want to lay down the rules of engagement here.” Sam said. “For all of us. We’ve always had a code as newsies. That should stand.”

Dean nodded heavily. “If we come out the other side of this, I want to be able to say we did all we could for everyone we had.”

There was a finality to those words that seemed to merit a brief silence. It was easier for everyone, as a mob. Safety in numbers. But Crowley would attack from the shadows, force their hand and meet them head-on in greater numbers, human and infernal, than they could ever hope to muster. All they had on their side was mean street cunning and rotten fruit. The Winchesters had worked with less.

“So no Wrath of God, seven plagues on your houses junk, ok? People still got to live in this place when we’re done.”

“If you can call that living.” Balthazar said a little disappointedly. Dean really hoped it was for show, they were terrifying enough as it was without them enjoying it. No wonder they weren’t supposed to have emotions, they came out all sorts of skewed and damaged. He looked guiltily at Cas.

“So then! To us!” Gabriel raised the glass lazily, smiling, his eyes settling at the three at the head of the table. “To the Kings of New York.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Selina for being an amazing beta!


	5. Interlude B: Friends of the Friendless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel and Balthazar attend a family reunion.

**INTERLUDE**

**Friends of the Friendless**

The wind on the bridge whipped his coattails against his boots as he stood on the edge, looking down into the iron-grey water. It was raining, and Castiel felt as if the rain was soaking into his very Grace. It was dangerous for them to be here, of course, but there was more to his distaste for the place than mere caution. He missed the warmth of the Winchester’s flat, with its tiny stove and its occupants. He missed Dean. Still, they had much bigger concerns than the mere comforts of his weakening vessel.

“Well this is all a bit theatrical.” Balthazar drawled, looking around bored.

Castiel could sense the tension in his companion’s Grace, the way it pulled in on itself like a wounded animal. He stood by his side, one hand holding his hat fast on his head as a breeze blew off the river, but seemingly having no effect on the glowing tip of his cigar. Balthazar looked over at him and sighed, snapping his fingers. Cas, he realised had come to think of himself as simply ‘Cas’ now, felt the moisture banished from his clothing. His coat and shirt were warm against his skin.

“Thank you.”

“This isn’t a good idea, Cassie.”

He felt their presence mere seconds before they arrived, appearing one by one. The Garrison. Only he and Balthazar wore their own clothes, some of them did not even have vessels, existing only on the higher plane. These angels dwarfed the bridge.

Uriel stepped forward.

“Brothers. Castiel. And Balthazar. It would do my heart well to see you both. If I had one.”

The others watched silently, their former captain turned bleeding heart missionary, standing before them in a filthy overcoat and torn bandanna.

“I sincerely hope” began Uriel, arms held wide to address them all. He gave a toothy smile that held no joy. “You are not here to try and recruit us for your little charity ball.”

Castiel felt his stomach doing something untoward as a shiver of despair crawled down his spine. It was a bad feeling, not a feeling usually classed as bad, like anger, or jealousy, but a sense of wrongness. Dean would call it ‘hunter’s instinct’, he realised.

“He would want us to help them.” Cas said simply, seeking out certain faces amongst the troop. Malachi, Sariel, Anna. “Our Father would want us to help them and wrest this city from the clutches of Hell. They need us. What did Father create us for if not to help his wayward children?”

They was silence on the bridge, only the far-off whistle of wind against the pylons.

“I know you hear their prayers. We are not deaf, why should we pretend to be so?”

The silence stretched on, but he felt the faintest murmur in the Host.

“Our orders” intoned Asrael, her vessel a small girl, her golden hair falling down her back and  whipping in the wind. “Have always been of non-interference unless directed otherwise. There are bigger things going on here than you can fathom, Castiel. It is our honour to serve even a small part in Heaven’s great plan”

“Our orders have been to do nothing.” Cas snapped. He felt anger growing in his chest, demanding freedom.

“Don’t be naive” Uriel’s voice was condescending. He turned to Cas’s right. ““You think Balthazar stands by you because he _cares_ about those children? Do you really think Sam and Dean Winchester will be able to resist the temptations Hell places before him? Enough to stake your very existence upon it?”

Cas stood firm. “This city is worth saving. They may not be pure of heart, but they are truly good. And we shall do good.”

Balthazar smiled at him around his cigar. Some of the other angels looked thoughtful.

“I am asking for your help to restore the balance” he said, addressing each in turn. He felt the Grace of some approach his own, Anna’s greeting his first, preening like birds. He felt more powerful than he had in millennia.

“It,” Uriel hissed “is none of our concern. Your interference would be a gross insubordination unto Heaven. You and all who follow you in such reckless foolishness would be cast out from the Host. Just listen to yourself, brother.”

This, Castiel realised, was his final chance to turn back. Uriel was giving him an opportunity to back down gracefully. To return a soldier amongst his brothers and sisters. Or be shackled to Earth, exiled from the choirs of Heaven. He had, he knew, made that choice long ago. He had found his home, and it was not on a higher plane.

“No. I am an Angel of the Lord. But I am also a member of the New York Newsies Union.”

Balthazar gave a mock bow, threading an arm through Castiel’s, leaning towards him and whispering, “That was morbid. The Winchesters are making you utterly gauche.”

They disappeared.


	6. Act Three: Once and For All

**ACT THREE**

**Once and For All**

The old velvet curtain in the back room of the ‘Lark drew up as a melody stumbled into life. Ash stood at the side of the stage, still wearing his bar apron and grinning dopily as he cracked his fingers and attacked the piano. It wasn’t good, but it was loud. Gabriel had apparently raided the entire costume box, decked out in a moth-eaten red boa. A ridiculous moustache twitched on his lip, and he leant on a particularly stolen looking shooting-stick.

He struck a pose.

_“High times, hard times”_

_‘Sometimes ze living iz sveet,_

_Aaand sometimes zere’s nothink to eat._

_Buuuuuuuut I alvays lands on my feet.”_

The ridiculous accent sent the younger kids into fits of giggles as he belted out the well-loved song. A kind of newsies anthem.  He’d even managed to magic himself up a bowler and rose while no one was looking, to match that strange accent. Dean didn’t think he knew himself what he was trying to imitate. The place was packed, boys filling every inch of the place. Ellen would be doing a roaring trade, grumbling as she was about the slow street urchin invasion of her bar.  

_“I put on my best and I steeck out my chest...”_

He pulled Jo onto the stage and twirled her around as they laughed madly.

_“Evuh-ree-body!”_

“High times, hard times!” the boys boomed out the chorus, made loud with booze and victory. This only seemed to encourage Gabriel further.

“Dean”

He almost spilled his drink as the angel appeared behind him mid-verse. He could feel Cas’ breath against his ear, mind flicking back to that night. Definitely time to slow down on the booze. The voice was soft, somehow audible over Gabe and the crowd. He wasn’t even sure Castiel had said it out loud.

It had been Sam’s idea, a little event to rally everyone’s spirits after the Battle of the Pen, as the Union boys were calling it. To show a united front between the newsie gangs.

He’s barely seen Cas over the past weeks, and he was always accompanied by Balthazar or his newest recruit, Anna. Dean found himself drawn to her. She was more easygoing than Cas, a rather stunning redhead with a calm confidence about her and a mind for tactics. Castiel looked up to her and he couldn’t help but wonder if there hadn’t been something between them. Or what the kiss had meant to Cas. Dean drained his glass.

 Gabriel had appointed himself his brother’s personal bodyguard or ‘Sam’s Cas’ as he smugly put it. And where Gabe went, the Brooklyn boys followed, completely unconcerned by his little ‘magic tricks’ as they liked to call them. Despite their vigilance and the circulation of the Street Journal, kids were still disappearing, some found dead. More replaced. Surprisingly, very few of the newsies defected. Their ranks swelled as the street kids of New York were bound together in a kind of tough, battle-hardened camaraderie. A few scabs had slipped through, but no one had sold a paper in weeks.

“Personal space, Cas” he coughed. Looking up into those striking blue eyes, framed by tired shadows.

Castiel frowned, moving back wordlessly as Dean pushed his chair out, turning around to face him. He looked worse than ever, Dean thought his powers must be waning horribly. His trenchcoat showed signs of wear and tear, his blue neckerchief askew. He badly needed a shave, although somehow that stubbly look was rather appealing on him. Dean licked his lips. Probably time to give the whiskey a rest.

“C’mere” he growled, pulling him in to adjust the blue scrap of fabric, like he’d done when they’d first met. It seemed like years ago, before the Strike and the Street Journal. Cas hadn’t really changed a thing about the outfit since then. Dean smiled to himself. Kind of made a guy feel a bit special. He looked up to see the angel looking worried.

“Dean, I—”

His face was suddenly framed by an explosion of red feathers as a boa appeared around his shoulders. Dean jumped, the whisky and the strange scent he could never place had already set his heart racing. _  
“...YOU WIN SOME, YOU LOSE SOME MY DEEEAR...”_

The room roared, as Gabe shoved Cas into Dean’s arms, running off cackling in his accent and moustache. All around them people were drinking and dancing. Celebrating a close call. Celebrating being alive. A lot of newsies were going to wake up very hung-over tomorrow. Balthazar waltzed by,  glaring over blonde hair at Dean like an antsy father-in-law. Garth spun clumsily past, giving him a thumbs up as an amused looking Anna led him across the room.

Nobody seemed to care much where they ended up, the mood was infectious. The chorus boomed across the Lark, the first life the stage had seen in decades, perhaps reminding the grimy velvet curtains of better times. Ellen just shook her head forlornly from the bar. He raised an eyebrow at Cas, who smiled back. The liquor and song flowed, everybody acting like idiots, just because they could. They were lost in the swarm of energy. He slipped his hands around Cas’ waist, while a hand rested on the hand-print, squeezing gently. He reminded himself how dangerous this was. God, he actually felt like a teenager tonight. He took a step and Cas looked alarmed, before following his cue.

“I don’t know how.”

“Don’t think that matters much tonight, Blue Eyes.”

“I missed you.”

It shouldn’t have felt as good as it did to hear that. He couldn’t help smiling goofily.

“Gabe’s been a total pain in the ass. I missed having the relatively sane Angel of the Lord.”

Cas made something between a purr and a chuckle, Dean could smell whiskey on his breath. He knew it should worry him how much the alcohol was effecting his angel. What that meant. But it could wait until morning.  He’d waited long enough already. Somehow they managed to avoid Gabe’s strange cavalcade, Cas still toting the awful red boa, the sides of his eyes narrowed in laughter.

“ _...And I’m off to the races again!”_

He knew he ought to try and disentangle Sam from where Gabe had herded him onto the stage, but it was getting too good, and the kid deserved a little public embarrassment after the past few weeks. If he was honest with himself, he wasn’t sure how well he’d be able to tackle the stage at the moment.

He leant in, about to ask something when Cas froze. Eyes wide.

“Cas, what-?”

Gabriel had stopped singing mid-sentence. He swung around and Sam’s hand went to the knife.

“You need to leave, Dean! Now!”

There was a police whistle. Oh _Shit_. Monsters they could deal with. Coppers were another beast entirely.

“Scatter!” Sam yelled, as boys and girls lashed out at the crush of bodies. The police began dragging people out, undiscriminating.  A piercing yell cut through the party like a knife, the drunk and sober alike stumbling over in a churning rush to get to the exit. He turned back. The stage was empty. An officer made a beeline for them as they broke apart.

“My comrades are here.” Cas hissed as Jo tripped the officer on her way past, herding the younger kids towards the stage exit. Cas nearly broke his shoulder, yanking him up the stairs. He had to admit, he was pretty plastered.

Gabriel had vanished at the first sign of Heavenly interference, his boys fighting valiantly towards the exits. Anna and Balthazar were wedged into a corner, fighting back-to-back. He could hear Ellen roaring at the police constable from the next room. Fruit rained down on the officer’s heads.  Ellen fought her way to her daughter, dragging a burly sergeant.

A cop got a hand in Cas’s coat. He dove for his knife. Dean launched himself upright, dodging the officer with the grace and luck only the inebriated possessed. He grabbed Cas’s wrist firmly, glaring.

“No knives” he barked ‘They’re human. Right?’

Someone threw a salted tomato, crying out in dismay when it remained ineffective. Of course it had, no _demon_ could cross the threshold of the Lark. He saw a few kids he didn’t know, who sure looked like they knew Anna and Balthazar.

“Are... are they angels?”

Cas nodded, parrying a blow with his own weapon. They were face to face with a small child in the white shift all the others wore, barefoot with creepy eyes that didn’t seem to be able to focus on them.

“Bad choice, brother.”

Castiel knocked her aside roughly, taking a mean slash to the side as his opponent fell to the ground screeching in Enochian. Dean caught a glimpse of the stage door, flapping open where someone had made a hasty exit. He grabbed Cas and bolted as the room exploded into fighting and fleeing newsies, angels and policemen. He saw someone brandish a club, and the unmistakable silver of an angel’s knife.

“Sam!” he bellowed into the fray, hoping for an answer. Cas paused, as if listening for a whispered conversation.

“Balthazar says he left just ahead of us with Jo and the Brooklyn boys” Cas replied, looking over his shoulder as Balthazar nodded at him, supported by a fierce-looking Anna. Her other hand grabbed a panicking newsie by the scruff as she disappeared. They almost fell down the stairs as they cleared the door, running into a thickset black kid with a mean look. Same white shift and bare feet. Great another angel.

“Uriel.”

“Castiel. This is insubordination, Heaven will entertain it no longer.”

Cas was panting now, leaning against Dean and holding his side, weakly gripping the knife. Dean used his free hand to level the Colt at their newest friend.  He didn’t like the way he was looking at them.

“What? You want a password or something? What _is_ it with you guys anyway? You get off on stalking or something?” Dean growled.

Uriel just smiled indulgently. He took a step forward, regarding the gun as if it were a merely toy. A ham-sized fist grabbed his collar, almost choking him as Cas yelled something in Enochian and lunged at him. Dean felt the uncomfortable sensation of angel transportation, a flurry of wings and space his stomach most certainly didn’t agree with.

“Dean!”

#

Uriel threw him to the ground. He screamed as a solid stone stair crunched into his ribcage, another breaking his nose. The angel watched him crawl weakly to knees before retching all over the stairs.

“Disgusting.”

He coughed wetly, barely capable of breathing, feeling the acrid taste of alcohol, blood and bile as his stomach churned again, demanding an encore. He squeezed his eyes shut. Not particularly even footing for a fight against an angel. He felt a hand roughly pull him to his feet, and the dizzying wash of something hot and bright as Uriel laid a hand on his forehead, the nausea and alcohol ripped out of him in a painful flash.  The urge to purge himself of everything he’d ever eaten faded, strength and sobriety returning. His nose crunched back into shape, his ribs healed. He gritted his teeth.

“You’re pathetic, Dean Winchester. Even for a filthy ape.” Uriel spat at him, so close he had to close his eyes. “I can only hope whatever they want with you is painful enough to atone for...” He shuddered. “Your mark is on his Grace. If it was up to me, I’d kill you right now, but Hell is so much more... imaginative.”

Uriel’s attention shifted to the top of the stairs as a shadow appeared in the bright light of the manor. A man stood there, slightly stocky wearing a pristine suit, flanked by a set of thugs. Dean felt his heart sink. Crowley. The man who owned New York. He tried to wriggle back, but Uriel held him firm. His gun was gone, along with his knives.

“I have your boy. Just as agreed.” Uriel didn’t move from his spot, his hand still fisted in Dean’s collar.

“Beautiful. Master Winchester and I are long due for a little... conversation. It has been a pleasure doing business with you.”

“Pleasure has nothing to do with it, demon. I serve Lucifer.” he said gruffly, before smiling at Dean “But... _do_ enjoy yourself.”

He fell to his knees on the stairs, grunting in pain as two anonymous sets of hands grabbed him roughly, dragging him up towards the manor.

#

Dean lashed out viciously, upsetting a blue and white china plate. It rocked back and forth on its stand before smashing to the ground with a horrific crash. One of his captors whimpered in fear, not at the young hunter, but the broken plate, as white dust settled on the carpet. He got a backhand across the mouth for his efforts, and smirked. Renewing his fervent struggle with an energy usually reserved for the less friendly monsters. They dragged him a small sitting room, giving him time contemplate the best way to acquaint his boot with a mahogany table during the respite. He was unarmed, but determined to take as much of Crowley’s personal property with him.  One rose, a twitchy-looking sort, approaching the doors weakly and arguing with someone on the other side.

The place was doused in extravagance, every surface testimony to the man’s ability to take whatever he wanted. Dean had counted four or five levels, with windows looking out onto perfectly manicured gardens. 

Twitchy returned frightened but grim, as he and his colleague picked Dean up by the arms and hauled him in to the office of the King of the Crossroads. Dean had never encountered anything reeking with the smell of money so strongly. They could feed all the kids on the block for a year with the kind of dough Crowley threw around. His men stood at the door, sneering nervously.

“Sit down. Sure you wouldn’t like something to drink? That was quite a display out there.”

He gave the man a dirty look.

“Well, suit yourself. I warned you, Dean Winchester. And despite your _insistence_ on having me kill you horribly and creatively, my offer still stands, albeit with new conditions.” He gave him a sour look, “Consider it a down payment on the plate.”

“If you think I’m going to—”

 “Most people are stupid, greedy cowards.  That’s how they were made. So long as they think they’re doing better than the person next to them, they’re happy. And so long as you think you’re happy you’ll never raise a hand against your betters. But sometimes,” he took a sip of something noxious-smelling. “Sometimes, there’s an anomaly. You and your little friends have become that anomaly. And if there’s one thing you people like more than anything, it’s an anomaly.  An underdog. A symbol of the revolution.”

“Does this have a point?” Dean asked, trying to get the taste of bile off his tongue.

“I’m a symbol too, you know. A Captain of Industry. People admire me. ‘That Crowley’ they say ‘He’s the model gentleman, the Twentieth Century man!”

“Yeah, well, some people are idiots.” Dean said coolly.

Crowley smiled. “I couldn’t agree more.” I’m a reasonable person, Dean. How long before your luck runs out? Or Sam’s? Bobby’s a lost cause. What about dear _Castiel_? Hmm? This is a big city, but not big enough to hide from me, boy. I promise you, your luck _will_ run out. One word from me and you’ll be somebody’s bunkmate by morning, my young friend. Sam too. Cas I will deal with personally. And Bobby? You think he’s miserable now? I’ll break his legs leave him to rot in your little hovel. He’ll watch you tear yourselves apart.”

Dean’s nails dug into the arm of the chair, making a scratching noise.

“My boys see you and your own onto that train to Santa Fe and you never look back. You will finally escape New York. Go play cowboys or hunt or settle down with your angel and have a whole clutch of mewling hatchlings. I don’t care. But you don’t come back. This is my city.”

“You owe those street rats nothing Dean. They’re not your family, they’re not your friends.”

So that was it then, Dean thought, his blunt nails leaving visible notches in the polished veneer of the chair. An offer too good to refuse. He thought back to hauling Cas home, the way the kid had felt against in his arms. Actually praying for the first time in years, not knowing whether angels could die or not. He buried the memory of the kiss deep inside himself, as Crowley watched him with a smile. And Sam staring into the shadows in horror, holding his chest with a bloody hand. His baby brother trying to keep himself together as they fought for a city that was already doomed.  His father’s voice was in head again, pushing its way to the surface, so loud and clear he thought someone was speaking in his ear.

  _How can others rely on you if you can’t even rely on yourself, Dean?_

Crowley’s eyes narrowed, like a cat watching a dull-witted mouse. The crossroad demon had done enough deals to know when he had his victim cornered.

“But I need a guarantee of good behaviour Dean, something personal.”

He stood up, “You ain’t getting my soul, man.”

Crowley forced him back down with a wave, his gaze not lifting from his drink.

“I don’t want your _soul_ , Dean. That would be far too easy.”

He put the glass down, arms wide to encompass the gallery of gory and morbid headlines.

“Dean Winchester, I want to offer you a job.” 

#

He’d been dreading this moment all night, unable to sleep on the decadent bed Crowley had provided in his guest rooms. The waistcoat was too tight, the papers seemed thick and heavy underneath his arm. Either side of him, the scabs he’d threatened daily quaked before the angry crowd, taking some grim satisfaction he stood amongst them. The iron gates swung open to the roar of the city’s newsies, enraged from last night’s attack.

Everything seemed to fall silent for a minute. Then the whispering began. Sam fought his way to the front.

“Dean, where _were_ you?” Sam asked, in horror, looking him up and down. “What are you _doing?”_

He wore a tailored suit, any sign of the struggle of the past few months brushed clean. His newsies uniform gone.  All grime washed away. An envelope would be waiting for him at the end of the week. Their train tickets to Santa Fe and more money than they’d earn selling papes in a year. He looked out at the crowd he’d helped create, with hand-painted signs waving angrily above their heads. Like they’d ever understand what it was like to have so much to lose.

They stepped out of the gates and onto the sidewalk, the scabs huddled around him for protection from the rain of debris hurtling down on them. He shoved his hat down hard, hoping for some protection from the hail of rubbish.

“Traitor” someone hissed.

Balthazar’s nose wrinkled as he stood beside Sam. He stubbed out the cigarette and disappeared.

“Welcome back to the good, honest workin’ life, Mr. Winchester!” Weasel hollered over the murderous shouts, placing a hand on his shoulder. Policemen held back the surge of the crowd. He kept his head down as Sam moved through the crowd, following him. Garth looked confused, Jo, disguised again, tried to duck under a policeman’s arm, getting a rough shove for her troubles.

“Dean?” The voice was behind him, he didn’t turn. He didn’t want to read all the meaning Cas managed to shove into his own name. They’d be grabbing Cas soon, not quite sure how he’d got past the barricade. Fingers brushed his arm, he moved ahead, disappearing into the crush of bodies, shaking his head at Sam. He’d work it out, or something approximating the truth.

A rotten apple thudded into his back, salt and fetid juice spreading across his shirt as he tried to sell some papers on the hostile streets of New York.

#

In the mere space of three days, the mysterious strangers had doubled their attacks on the street children, cutting off their salt supplies, setting guards around churches to keep them from getting at holy water. Sam and Castiel argued with each other, with the boys, the angels, the police and the scabs. In two days sixteen boys had failed to report in. Some had left town, riding the rails in a mass exodus the adults were at a loss to explain. Gabriel had appeared but once, disguised, always on the lookout for Heaven’s soldiers. They still had Brooklyn, but they were losing more newsies every day after the defection of one of their unofficial leaders. The remainder looked to Sam and Cas, but neither had Dean’s charm or control over the masses. Crowley was trying to force Sam’s hand now the mantle of leadership had fallen to the soft-spoken younger Winchester.

“I almost tore the city apart looking for you and my brother. I can’t imagine what you hope to achieve by this, but it won’t work.”

Dean cursed and dropped a handful of papers as Castiel appeared beside him. He wasn’t sure if he’d been using his powers or not, but he still hadn’t grasped the point of personal space, regardless of how rocky things were. Apparently he was taking his first real betrayal to heart.

“Yeah well, you can thank your angel buddy for that. Sammy may be a pain in the ass but at least he’d never sell me to the Goddamn devil.” he hissed, aiming low.

Cas didn’t bat an eye.

“Half of your former allies believe the strike was simply your plan to profit off the conflict, and the other half believes you to be possessed.”

Dean traded a paper for a penny. “So either way you’re saying they want to soak me good.”

He eyes slid to the side, noting a few familiar faces amongst the crowd. There were eyes everywhere, newsies and demon alike. He’d already fought his way through two failed ambush attacks that morning. 

“I don’t know how long we can protect you. Some of the children from the racetrack were planning a rather worrying ordeal by the river, and the angels are beginning to lose faith in the mission. We’re losing Dean, we need you.”

“You don’t need me and neither does Sam. He planned it all, it’s more his strike than anyone else’s. He wrote the damn Street Journal and got everyone armed with salt. That was nothing to do with me. And why should _you_ need me?” he snapped ‘You’ve got all your little family to keep you company now.”

They ducked as a tomato hit the wall above their heads, poorly aimed and accompanied by something obscene.

“You tell Sam just five more days, and we can get blow the Rotten Apple for good.” He leant over a horse trough, trying to wash the fruit pulp out of his hair. “In five days we’re on that train.”

“Dean. I won’t do it. I won’t leave them” Sam’s voice broke a little.

He caught his little brother’s reflection in the grimy water, he felt trapped between Sam’s disappointment and Cas’s...whatever that was. It was a sort of smouldering intensity that gave him shivers.

He gathered his papers and pushed off into the crowd, banging into Castiel’s shoulder as strode by.

#

Dean looked up from the ceiling, feeling every ache from the sheer effort of getting by with another one hundred newsies after his blood. He had a curfew now. Part of the deal so Crowley could keep an eye on him, a room had been set up on the first floor of Crowley’s manor.  He rolled over, pulling the blankets up across his shoulder, accidentally brushing against The Mark.  He winced, anticipating a twinge of pain. There was nothing. Just the crisp brush of expensive sheets against his skin. It was a strange sort of emptiness that twisted at his gut. He didn’t often sleep alone. The heavy weight of the past week caught up with him as he lay awake in the dark.

Sam. He was growing up, doing his own thing. He was becoming a man, even at thirteen. He had a screw loose if he thought he still didn’t need his big brother any more, but he needed space. He wasn’t a kid any more.

And Cas. He twisted his fingers in the sheet, turning on his stomach and burying his face in the pillow. Castiel, who came back, every time he pushed him away. He’d been afraid he wasn’t coming back this time. The angel saw into his tattered soul with brilliant eyes and didn’t flinch. Cas, who had the company of the divine and a snug little place in Heaven and yet chose Dean and the grimy streets of New York. 

He counted down the days until the rally.

#

“Cas.”

He called out into the night sky, feeling a little stupid. The wind whipped through his hair and shirt. He really hoped nobody was watching him, standing out on the fire escape landing, looking like he was lost. He waited a minute, and then five, his heart pounding a little.

“Castiel, I need to talk you. It’s important.” he repeated. He knew there were summoning rituals, one of the angels had mentioned them offhandedly, but without any lore to back it up, he was lost.

Nothing except the sound of street life below him as a lone cart rattled through the street, its horse snorting as if laughing at him.

“Cas please, I need to see you.” he said softly, feeling his heart sink further. All the abuse he could deal with if it was necessary, as much as he wanted to deck most of his former allies. And himself. But he couldn’t lose Cas. Not now. It’d be like losing a limb.

“What is it Dean?” asked a voice tightly behind him. “I’m busy. We rally the Union at dawn.”

He clamped down on his surprise, turning to face Castiel with a cool look. The scant stubble he was growing had gotten wilder, and his hair poked out at strange angles.  Dean resisted the urge to straighten his bandana. Run his hands through that wild messy hair and feel the scratch of his stubble against his lips. Mud soaked the hem of his long coat and caked his boots thickly. But his eyes remained the same, icy blue and intense, burning with some occult power. Dean licked his dry lips and launched into his defence, half-rehearsed.

“Cas.”

He took a step closer, putting a hand of his forearm, as if to stop him from disappearing.

“Please...just hear me out?”

#

Sam paced the square nervously with the thirty or so newsies, decked out with salt and holy water in the semi-dark, with every blade and piece of silver they could spare or steal. It wasn’t enough. Sam knew that.  The word had gone out. Pages of the Street Journal, written on scraps, carried by word of mouth, with a time, date and a place. It was war, and Sam Winchester had named the battlefield. McCloud Square. Crowley’s doorstep. The mansion loomed up in front of them like some decadent fortress, towering over the cluster of poor and homeless kids.  It wasn’t just about newsies anymore. Not just the regulars and Jo and Garth. Not just the usuals. This wasn’t about the money. It wasn’t about pennies, or papers or pride. This was about protecting their own.

Their numbers were dwindling since Dean’s... Sam didn’t even know what to call it anymore, except a huge risk for what could only be a stupid plan. It couldn’t be true, he’d only seen his brother on the streets, but he knew Dean too well. Something didn’t add up. And now Castiel had disappeared, on the eve of battle. It was just Sam Winchester, thirteen, The Pen newsies and the ragtag army of the coalition from the cellar, drips and drabs of familiar streetkids and three or four angels.

Their heads twirled as a raucous singing echoed about the square. 

“ _High Times, Hard Times,_

_Sometimes the living is sweet...”_

 “Never fear” Gabe roared around yet another of his endless supply of sweets, “Brooklyn is here!”

Sam couldn’t help but break into a grin, Gabe’s boys joined them in the centre, all bravado and lewd jokes. Armed to the teeth with an array of ridiculous weapons. The archangel was unarmed, not that he’d need anything but his God-given abilities. He threw an arm around Sam’s shoulder.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Sam asked “Once you jump out of the box, you can’t go back.”

Gabe smiled as the newsies greeted each other as old friends, sharing smokes and admiring each other’s weapons.

“Sammycakes, if I was born at all, I was born ready.”

He looked about them, raising an eyebrow at the ragtag army of fifty or sixty at the most, ranging from ten to twenty years old. Too few and too young. If Sam’s calculations were correct, they might be outnumbered twenty to one.

‘What about you, kiddo? There’s still time to walk away from this. You could take Dean’s ticket and go west, son!”

He shook his head. They all knew what they were getting into. He’d made his choice. The right one, he hoped. And he sure as Hell hadn’t given up on Dean.

“Any word from Cas?” Sam asked nervously.

“Please, this is a _Winchester_ shindig. Like he’d miss a Winchester thing. He’s all over your Winchester things.”

“Thanks Gabe. If that’s my dying thought I’m going to come back and haunt you.”

A strange calm hung in the air. It made Sam uneasy. Whatever plan his older brother was putting into action, he prayed it worked. He felt exposed, perched on their lookout in the middle of the square. Everyone was expecting a miracle today.

A roar filled the square, discordant, echoing over the buildings and out into the empty space of McLeod Square. Each hand moved to their weapon of choice. Where the Hell were the other angels? His stomach twisted. The thunder of voices grew louder...

“...Spread the word....watch your back.... always carry salt...”

They flooded the square, a parade of various uniforms, sizes, colours, creeds. Street kids, busboys, shoeshines, errand boys, flower girls, pickpockets, beggars, apprentices. Many waving scraps of paper like brightly coloured flags. The Street Journal.

Gabe laughed at his stunned face. “See, this is why I like you guys. Always full of surprises.”

There had to be...

“Two thousand, five hundred and sixty eight of them, a sympathetic werewolf and twenty-eight stray dogs.” Balthazar droned, “Had to weed out a hundred and sixty...something bloody demons on my way here.”

“Sixty-five” Anna smiled, a few spare Street Journals under her arm. She was dressed in her own newsies uniform, her red hair tied back and a cap perched on her head. “Hell should have been more careful.”

The square was soon packed, the chant dying down as Gabe pushed him onto the statue that marked the centre of the grand square. A bronzed old man who watched the proceedings with grave indifference.  Sam perched on its shoulders, looking out of the crowd in awe, his heart pounding. The angel handed him a strange-looking tin funnel that sent his voice echoing over the heads of thousands, like some hawker at the carnival.

“It’s good to see to, uh, you all. We were getting a little nervous.”

The crowd laughed, waving signs and fruit. ‘STRIKE!’, ‘WE GOT RIGHTS’ and ‘DEMUNS GO TO HELL’

 “We’re here to show everyone we can’t be stepped on.” The children roared. Sam took a breath and continued, “We have rights, just like everyone else in this city! We deserve to live our lives in safety.”

“YEAH!”

“In peace”

“YEAH!”

“We matter!”

The crowd went wild, chanting parts of the Street Journal. Sam tried not to pass out from nerves, feeling like he had a wild mustang by the reins. He took a deep breath, praying this worked as more figures filled the square, carefully avoiding the rotten fruit, beginning to work their way through the crowd, towards the centre.

 

#

“If you coulda’ thought of a better way to get the lay of the land, I’d like to hear it.” Dean grunted, as he dragged Cas towards him by the waist, ducking as a steward strode past on some kind of errand. The angel looked up at him reproachfully.  He loosened his hand and focused on the window sill above them.

“All the house staff are possessed and no animal will set foot within these grounds.” Cas said stiffly.

“Except us.”

‘Except us.” Cas nodded.

He felt a strange sort of exhilaration at it all. The Mark was warm against his skin. Cas shuddered beside him, perhaps feeling it through their ‘profound bond’, as he was so fond of calling it. He looked him square in the eye and Dean caught the hint of something both animal and human, but decidedly not celestial.

“Alright, let’s get this over with” he breathed, licking his lips. He poked his head out of the hedge, looking about like a particularly well-armed rabbit. He craned his neck to examine the window above them and cupped his hands, offering Cas a leg-up. 

The angel stared at him expectantly. Dean sighed.

“I’m givin’ you a leg-up, buddy. Use my hands to get yourself up over the sill. No offence, but there’s no way you’ll be able to pull yourself up with those twigs.” He patted one of Cas’s arms fondly, the sleeves rolled up in imitation of his own.

Cas looked dubiously up at the sill. and back at Dean.  “Crowley will have protective sigils.”

Dean winked, “That’s what I’m counting on. He ain’t countin’ on an angel of the Lord sneaking in through the window.”

He grunted as Cas stepped reluctantly onto his cupped hands. He could feel the tread of his own hand-me-downs pushing into his palms. He pushed, the momentum sending the angel onto the window sill gracelessly, his fingers and boots scrambling for purchase before he disappeared in a mess of limbs. Dean chuckled, hoisting himself effortlessly through, the gun clamped between his teeth. He landed on the burgundy carpet, already feeling his boots staining the expensive fabric with mud and soot. Cas stood at his side, barely touching him.

“How are we doing?” Dean asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“There are three on the landing, two more are guarding the door to his chambers.”

“And that’s where Crowley is.” Dean started down the corridor, his nose wrinkled at a rather unflattering portrait of the man himself.

“God willing.” Cas replied.

The angel fell in beside him, matching his stride as they weaved between the windows casting a weak pre-dawn light across the hallway. Dean resisted the urge to break something expensive.  He couldn’t help but notice the way Cas moved in a fight or hunt. Usually he was stiff or awkward, like he hadn’t yet figured out how to be comfortable, but now he moved like a creature that didn’t really understand gravity. He fancied the angel’s shadow didn’t quite match his form as they strode together. Footsteps muted by the carpet, he veered left. He reminded himself Cas wasn’t reading his thoughts and signalled. He following wordlessly

“Feel anything up ahead?”

“The two from before.”

“You take left, I’ll take right.”

They moved on with little fuss, taking the next two floors without opposition. The house was nigh deserted, Crowley’s men distracted by the rally outside. The unsuspecting possessed where no match for an angel and hunter team. However fallen they were, at least they could do this. Dean licked his cracked lips, grinning ferally.  “Nice. You’re a hell of a better hunter than a newsie.”

Cas froze. His knife drawn before him. He lunged forward, pinning Dean against the wall, a hand clamped across his mouth, looking straight into his eyes but not really seeing him. Most people attempting such a feat on Dean Winchester would have been rewarded with a collection of broken fingers. Castiel’s eyes slid shut, mouthing a silent prayer or incantation under his breath.  
A door swung open with a brash thud, and a set of footsteps drew closer. Dean could tell just from the gait that whoever it was, was big, and _pissed._ Cas’s grip on his shoulder tightened, pressing his head against his shoulder. Dean tried to fall into a fighting position but Castiel’s true strength kept him pinned to the wall, with nothing to do but watch as the stranger slowly approached.

Dean’s eyes widened in recognition. Castiel shook his head quietly, deep blue eyes throwing that statement back at him- “ _Trust me.”_

He tried to ignore the angel’s breath on his skin, every joint and muscle locked as his blood fizzed with adrenaline.  His heart thundered under Castiel’s hand.

Uriel paused, looking sharp and dangerous in a fitted suit, no more white shift that the angels wore like a uniform. Dean thought he surely must have seen them by now. The young man’s eyes flicked about the corridor, as if he thought someone was calling his name. Cas’s hand slipped over The Mark. Dean almost yelped, sure the motion would betray them. But Uriel remained stock-still for a long minute, and then carried on, a door creaking open and closed.

Cas smiled weakly.

Dean grinned, “You still got it, buddy.”

There were three floors up before Dean worked up the courage, eyes flickering to the angel so often he almost got snagged in a fine-looking Oriental rug. They crouched under a posh-looking lounge as an unsuspecting butler strode past, feeling his face heat up a little as the stuffy, cramped space forced them together. Cas’s hand was clamped on his arm, watching the possessed employee stride away.

“So, you n’ me, uh...” Dean abandoned all attempts at being suave, “What the Hell is this? Between us?”

“Is it necessary to conduct this conversation from underneath our enemy’s furniture?”

Dean paused, considering the question as he breathed in dust, the Colt digging into his hip.

“Yes. You just disappeared after the night in the alleyway. No explanation, no news except from your winged buddies.”

“I was trying to keep the Garrison away. I’m a fugitive, Dean” Cas said, with a twinge of disbelief.

“Yeah, well... you still had time for _Balthy_. At least when I screw up and disappear with no explanation I make it public.”

The angel made an exasperated sound Dean hadn’t heard before. “Please just say what you’re thinking, Dean, you’ll make things much easier for both of us.”

“That’s not how it works down here!”

“Under the couch?” Cas asked, tilting his head.

“On Earth! With people!” he yelled, snapping a hand across his mouth, before lowering his voice to an angry whisper. “You gotta work things out, like what you feel about stuff.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably, his back scraping against the wooden frame of the furniture, one knee wedged against the angel’s thigh. He wiggled so they were facing each other.

“Like us. We kissed and everything. And then you run away or just appear out of nowhere. You look at me sometimes and I kinda feel like one of those swoonin’ ladies at the flicks.”He coughed, blaming it on the dust.

“Yes, Gabriel says I ‘follow you around like a lovesick dog’,” Cas offered, “I thought profound bond was more accurate. There is nothing canine about my love for you.”

Dean banged his head on the wooden frame, biting his tongue and swallowing a curse. He was never quite ready for what came out of the angel’s mouth. Their current position was making it hard to look anywhere but into his eyes.

“The moment I gripped your fleeing soul our bond was forged, but I must confess, I’ve grown an appreciation for your other qualities too. Your mannerisms for one, and the kindness you try so hard to hide.”  Cas added, hardly blinking, with a look so warm it burnt like The Mark.

He felt himself blushing deeply, busying himself picking a cobweb out of his hair. “Yeah, well, I really... like you a lot too. You’re a weird kid, but that kind of works for you. So...yeah.”

He picked a small spider off the angel’s cheek, feeling way too relieved. Great, he’d go to his death grinning like a loon. Cas followed his fingers, looking a little preoccupied.

“C’mon, enough mushy stuff”, he said, wiggling out a bit and rising to his knees, offering Cas a grubby hand. “We gotta—”

“I had hoped Crowley might have finished you off, Winchester. Still, an appropriate end for you, crawling on your belly.”

He rolled to the side, drawing the gun and looking up past the polished shoes, the tailored suit, and the cool fury in their owner’s eyes. Uriel’s lip curled, his dagger mere inches from Dean’s neck. He fell back, scrabbling to his feet.

“You’re kinda interrupting something here, Baldie.”

Cas appeared in front of him wordlessly, his own dagger was drawn, a trail of dust and spider’s webs down his coat.

“Castiel, _really?_ Step aside, brother. Winchester has made this personal.”

The angel stood firm, looking over his shoulder as Dean crouched in a fighting stance.  “Don’t force my hand, Uriel. You’ve been corrupted.”

“That’s rich coming from _you_.” Uriel snarled, and breathed deeply, as if preparing himself to lecture a small child. “This isn’t necessary, there are other options, even for you.”

“And what do you propose I do?” Castiel asked evenly.

“Join us.” he said simply. “Heaven won’t have you back, not now. Not after what you’ve said and done, in front of the whole Garrison.”

He took a step forward, “Lucifer appreciates vision. He’ll welcome you with open arms. Think of what we could _achieve_ together.”

Castiel took a step back towards Dean, putting himself between the two. His shoulders slumped. “Oh Uriel, I didn’t leave to rebel.”

 “Don’t you dare try and pity me, Castiel. How long do you think it will last?” He sneered at Dean, like he was some particularly disgusting cockroach. “He’ll grow tired of you. He’ll wither and die. They’re just animals.

“This human means more to me than you could ever possibly fathom.” Castiel growled, genuinely angry. Dean saw the dagger flash as he brought it forward, guarding his chest. His eyes didn’t leave Uriel. “That won’t change.”

“Run Dean, do what you have to do.” Cas’s eyes flickered back to him for a second as the angels clashed and drew apart, “I have all the Grace I need now.”

The force of their second clash drove him to his knees, the light blinding him as sparks showered the carpet. Dean rose shakily, loading the gun and yelling out.

“Don’t get your skinny ass kicked without me, Cas.”

 The angel turned and nodded, landing a punch on Uriel he was sure he’d learnt from the prize fights. Uriel grabbed him and they disappeared into the darkness of the hall. Colt in hand, Dean found himself uttering a quiet, threatening prayer to whatever twisted son of a bitch might be watching over him, racing towards Crowley’s chambers.

#

He nudged the door open, wincing at the slight creak of the hinges. Dean sensed something large shift in one corner of the office. He turned, seeing only a velvet cushion. He was sure it hadn’t been there on his last abduction. His eyes were telling them there was nothing there, just a trick of the light, but his hunter’s intuition was tugging at his senses, drawing back to the spot. He raised the Colt silently, debating whether it was worth tipping Crowley off.

“Have you ever seen what a hellhound can do to a man, Dean? They possess a sort of sadistic appreciation you just don’t get in other breeds.” Crowley’s voice came from the centre of the room, Dean didn’t turn, mesmerised by something his eyes couldn’t quite understand.

The cushion growled at him, and he noticed a pile of thick liquid pooling on the carpet. He bit his lip hard, trying not to think of the last time something had growled at him like that. No Cas to save him this time. The barrel of the Colt shook slightly. 

“It seems like demons are the only ones who keep their promises these days” the newspaper baron sighed. “Come on Dean, I’m trying to give you _one_ intelligent conversation before you die, the least you could do is pay attention.”

He didn’t lift his gaze, his father’s gun trained on the corner. He thought he could almost make something out, although he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“You didn’t come here to shoot my dog.”

He turned, noticing that, for the first time since they’d crossed paths, Crowley looked genuinely annoyed.  The chanting of young voices echoed up from the square, too loud for a regular news day.

““STICK TOGETHER. SPREAD THE WORD. CARRY SALT.”

The demon snapped his fingers and the shutter closed abruptly, doing little to mute the might of the New York Newsies Union.

“A fair go for newsies!” The crowd bellowed.

He felt a fierce pride in his brother. Sam had done this, managed to unite so many to a common cause. Dean had just helped out where he could, but it was Sam who’d got the Street Journal out there and spread the word. They’d saved lives, like hunters were supposed to. The kid was growing up.  Wherever his father was, Dean thought he’d be proud.

“I should have known your rather pathetic sense of heroism would prevail over common sense.”

“Eat it, Crowley.” Dean snarled, feeling the chanting mass bolster him up. “New York ain’t your own personal toy box. You can’t own people, and you sure as hell don’t own us.”

There was a deep growl from behind him, more tiger than dog. The demon gave it a fond look. A trail of saliva followed the hellhound as it circled him, like some disgusting parody of a Devil’s Trap. He realised he could smell the thing, a kind of sweetly foul carrion scent mixed with burning hair.

Something crashed heavily in the hallway. Uriel bellowed something in hoarse Enochian. He was itching to make a run for it, put a few rounds in the treacherous angel even though it would be completely useless. God, he hoped Cas was alright. The angel had taken a lot of hits since he’d cast his lot in with the Winchesters.

“STICK TOGETHER... CARRY SALT” The chanting got louder.

At least they’d done some good for this rat-infested dump. Even if it meant putting up with an angel that drove him crazy and a little brother always tagging along. He’d never wanted to die for New York, but he’d do it for them.

“Don’t be naive,” Crowley said quickly, perhaps misreading the fond smile. His eyes flickered to the window, as a blind closed of its own volition. “They hate you just as much as they hate me and _The New York Sun_. That crowd out there will tear you apart, Sam won’t be able to stop that.”

Dean shrugged.

Something slammed into the oak door, the timber moaning under the force. Splintery cracks appeared in the timber. He heard Cas say something weakly, too soft for him to make out. He turned, but the beast was there, between him and the door. He silently prayed his angel could hang on for a few more minutes.

“Even if they don’t get you, you’ll be stuck here your whole life, just like Robert Singer. You’ll work all day at some meaningless factory, get drunk, murder something and do it all again the next day. It’ll kill you, Dean.” 

The chanting outside the window seemed to increase in energy. He thought he caught a few verses of ‘ _High Times, Hard Times’_ on the wind.

“Maybe, but I’d rather be a good man like Bobby than a sewer rat like you. You know, Crowley, all you had to do was to keep the price of the papers the same. We’d have never gotten so many kids out there if you hadn’t gotten greedy. Hope it was worth the extra couple of bucks a day to make sure none of your little friends can skulk around the city no more. Everywhere you go, us streetrats will know, we’ll be ready.”

“They won’t be so spirited when I drag the ringleaders out of their hovels”, the demon replied in a low voice, losing all pretence of good nature.

It was too quiet beyond the door, as the chanting outside became louder and louder. 

“You might own halfa’ New York, but that’s just buildings. And as much as I hate this place I ain’t gonna let you burn it to the ground for your own amusement, there’s too many people here I care too much about. They all know what you are and how to stop you. You’ll never make another penny in this town.”

His eyes narrowed as the crowd outside bayed for blood. Crowley lunged forward, slamming him into the balcony window, the force almost cracking the glass as it swung out, letting the chant into the room. Someone below yelled and the demon hissed as a barrage of slated fruit hit the lower windows.   
“Don’t think this is over, Winchester. From now until the day you die, there’s nowhere you can hide.”

“Yeah, I’ll be waiting, Sir Crowley.”

“See you again very soon, Dean.” he said darkly, snapping his fingers.

The room exploded into plumes of flame where he had been standing, licking up the drapes and blinding Dean, the heat pouring over him in dry, sizzling waves. He doubled over, coughing, racing to the door with his head down and a hand over his mouth.  
“Cas!” he yelled, throwing his weight against the solid oak door and half tripping on the carpet outside “We gotta go, man. This place is going up in smoke.”

Something barrelled into his legs, getting its jaws into the leg of his trousers and dragging him to the ground. The hellhound snarled madly, thrashing its head about. He kicked out, feeling something solid connect with his boot. Dean leapt forward and overbalanced, still running as the thing’s claws gouged the carpet, growling and snapping. He veered to the side, and a porcelain vase exploded as the hellhound rammed into it, letting out a gurgling whine.

“Cas!”

He coughed, his eyes streaming. He could only make out vague shapes through the tears, the hallway looked like it had been hit by a wild storm. He turned just in time, as Uriel descended on him with all of Heaven’s wrath, diving to avoid the table that came smashing into the ground a mere hairbreadth from his heels. The fallen angel was covered in head to toe in blood, so thickly soaked he seemed indistinguishable from the burgundy carpet. A silver dagger protruded from his chest, Castiel’s dagger. Dean jumped to his feet, cursing.

“What did you do to Cas, you bastard?”

He dodged a slow, swinging punch, landing his own fierce blow on the side of the angel’s head. Uriel staggered back and his eyes began to glow. A thunderous snarl came from his side, as the hellhound pounced on its new target, infuriated by the light and sound. Something enormously bright shifted on the edge of his vision.

“You filthy cur!” Uriel roared, a noise that was more screech than English, imitating the sound of human words.  He tried to shake the creature off, looking like he was attempting some mad, flailing dance to the human eye. Bright snakes of light twisted, unfolding from his human vessel, unable to contain the creature inside. The light twisted and turned into a huge, writing mass behind the figure, blade-like wings the smashed into the sides of the hall, blocking his escape and scorching the wall where they touched. The dog’s growl and the angel’s scream seemed to become one.

Something pushed him to the ground, Cas’s arm wrapped around his waist, the other wrapping around his chest, fingers splayed over The Mark like a protective totem.  
“Look away Dean”, he felt the words as a coarse voice in his head, even as he heard them in Enochian. 

The screeching became too much, he was blind and deaf. All he could do was curl into Cas’s arms. Something brushed against his cheek, and surged past as the angel’s fingers dug into his flesh, hard enough to bruise. A human heart pounded against his back, Cas exhaled sharply against his neck.

And because he was Goddamn Dean Winchester, he cracked one eye open.

Cas’s wings spread across him like a feathered dome of light, shielding him from something his mind couldn’t quite fathom, just beyond the thin edge of his angel’s wingtips. This close he could see every otherworldly feather, like examining a ghostly bird, mottled with colours that seemed to shift and pulse before his eyes. The Mark glowed and burnt like a brand, tears streamed down his cheeks. He breathed in a lungful of smoke and spluttered, body shaking even in Cas’s vicelike grip.

The angel’s sonorous voice whispered something in Enochian, deep and foreign, the meaning whispered in his mind. His breath hitched in his throat and his head swam as the world faded to the mute and human realm, the meaning of the words lingering. Cas’s lips brushed against his neck and he let out a shuddery sigh of relief. Dean made a small noise of dismay as the wings faded, leaving behind only a glowing shape of the back of his eyelids, like looking at sun too long.  
“I could have forgiven much of my brother,” Cas said softly, his voice strained and uneven, “But not taking you away from me.”

He pulled Dean up and they both stared at the prone form lying on the floor, almost peaceful except for the silver dagger protruding from his side and the bite marks on his arm. Dean could smell burnt fur. Castiel knelt down beside Uriel, closing the man’s staring eyes and pulling his sword from the lifeless vessel. The shadow of wing’s spread out from the former angel’s shoulders, burnt into the floor and walls.

“Thanks”   
“I told you not to look, Dean.” Cas murmured, with a half-hearted frown.

“But you knew I’d do it anyways.”

The angel sighed, and Dean grabbed his hand as the crackle of fire got louder, and smoke filled the corridor. “C’mon, show me the way outta here, Sam’s waiting for us.”

They set off at a run. Dean leant over midstride, planting a quick kiss on the other’s cheek.

 “Thanks, Blue Eyes.”

“And...” he added, as they raced down the hall, swerving through the halls, “For the record, we fought an angel, a hellhound and a crossroads demon all before lunch. Sam is _never_ gonna beat that!”

 Cas frowned, his coat flapping behind him as they ran. “I’ve never understood the need for competition between you two.”

“Look... nevermind, alright? My point is I’m amazing, and you’re kind of amazing too.”

Cas gave him a fond look and almost tripped over a fallen painting. Dean laughed. It figured he’d have to be escaping from a rapidly collapsing building to be able to feel this light and, well, happy. They dashed down the stairs, their boots drumming out a frantic tempo as the crackle and hiss of fire got louder. He felt the heat of The Mark, stronger and a little dizzying. He grinned idiotically.

“I think you’ve breathed in too much smoke,” Cas said worriedly, moving a little closer in case his charge fell on his face mid-stride.

Dean was sure that was part of it, but not the main reason he was feeling so genuinely... good.  They skidded to a halt, almost missing the window they’d climbed through only an hour earlier.

His angel looked exhausted, cheeks flushed and clothes torn. His lip was bleeding and the way he held his side, he suspected the injuries from the alleyway must have reopened during the fight with Uriel. And then there were those striking eyes, which had caught his attention so completely back in the Pen.

He gently kissed the corner of his lip, careful to avoid the split lip. He was about to say something witty when Cas cut him off, kissing back hungrily, one hand in his hair and the other steadying Dean against the wall.

“Really fucking amazing.”

He could taste a little blood and a lot of smoke, but beyond that he was fully absorbed, hands slipping down the angel’s back, meeting bare skin where Uriel had gotten a hold of his coat. The angel kissed like no Heavenly creature had any business doing.

“I like your wings” Dean said lamely, his brain not quite catching up with his mouth, both of which were a little preoccupied. He pulled away reluctantly, hoisting the window open. “They were brilliant.”

“They do possess a certain brilliance”, the angel agreed, and Dean caught what might have been laughter in his eyes as he helped him out. The angel landed awkwardly for someone apparently carrying a pair of giant, glowing wings. He looked down from the window and snickered.

There was a resounding boom around them and the chanting halted, creating an eerie sort of silence within Crowley’s high walls and manicured garden. Bits of flaming debris began to fall around them. Dean ducked back inside for a second as a piece of tile flew past his head.

“C’mon, let’s get out of here before Sammy decides to play fireman.”

He landed next to Cas, as the crowd let out a roar of approval at the wanton destruction of their enemy’s property. Well, boys will be boys, he thought, grinning. He slung an arm around Cas’s shoulder, chuckling.

“You’re going to have to tell me what you’re laughing at Dean,” the angel said, looking confused “I promised not to access your thoughts, remember?”

Dean leant over and kissed him again, flush against the wall, their own personal victory celebration before descending into the madness just outside the walls. Even after everything that had happened between them, after being torn apart and rebuilt on the city streets, Cas was still so completely Cas, _his_ Cas. 

“C’mon” he said a little breathily, readjusting his bandanna and mussing up Cas’s soot-stained hair. The angel looked a little disappointed they’d stopped, but tilted Dean’s cap to the side. “Plenty of time for that later. ‘Fraid you’re stuck with me now, Blue Eyes, but our public waits.”

#

He had decided, in the couple of minutes it took for the crowd to connect the two battered and smoky newsies with the blazing inferno behind them, that he wasn’t going to go out of his way to dismiss the rumours that he and Cas might have had something to do with the roaring inferno engulfing one of the finest houses in Manhattan. A firecart fought its way through the crowd. The clamour of its bells only whipping the street kids into a more excitable state.  
“A FAIR GO FOR NEWSIES! A FAIR GO FOR KIDS!”

The firemen looked confused as they valiantly tried to keep the hollering children at bay. There’d be Hell to pay if the streetrats got to looting Sir Crowley’s mansion.  Sam fought his way through the crowd, giving Dean a crushing hug before quickly stepping away, tearing up a little. Dean blamed his own stinging eyes on the smoke.

“You’re such a girl, Sammy. We knew what we were doing.”

“I thought... you’re completely mad, both of you.”  Sam’s voice broke a little.

 “So are we setting fires and making out now? Because I can get behind that.” Gabe insinuated himself into their reunion, apparently treating the strike more like a gala with the return of the feather boa and a ‘DEMUNS GO TO HELL’ sign tucked under one arm. He slapped Cas hard on the back. “Make an honest woman out of him, little brother.”

Sam pulled a face.

“It’s good to see you both” Anna smiled, as Jo wrapped her arms around Dean’s neck.

“Yes, nice of you both to put in an appearance. Tragically cliché, Cas, bad taste must be contagious”, Balthazar drawled around his cigarette.

More firecarts made their way into the square, weaving through the scattering mass if children, fending off the more daring hitchhikers. The men looked baffled by the sheer number of grubby, ragged children gathered in the square and their strange, repetitive chant.

Sam grabbed each of them by the arm and dragged them towards the centre, where the bronze statue sat on its podium, looking like a solemn island in the chaos. He followed Sam, jumping onto the dais and pulling Cas up. Whether they believed in monsters or not, the crowd drew its own decisions about the events of that morning. There was near-silence as they waited for someone to speak. He could see the entire square from the statue, a vast sea of ragged clothes and upturned faces, not just newsies, but shoe-shiners, factory workers, errand boys and girls, over a thousand children and teenagers, all hungry and tired but roaring their approval. He saw copies of the Street Journal written on every spare scrap, far more than they could have ever produced alone. Garth waved his cap frantically and Jo and Ash yelled something he couldn’t quite make out. Of course, they were going to be in so much trouble from Bobby and Ellen, although he had his suspicions that a lot of the shop kids and errand girls were Jo’s own work.

It was a new sensation. They worked in the shadows, hunters and angels, unrecognised and unthanked. He blinked, looking from Sam to Cas with a dopey grin and back out to the sea of grimy faces. Sam rolled his eyes fondly and Cas titled his head, giving him a rare, quiet smile. He grabbed the hands of his brother and his angel, raising them to the sky with his own.

“WATCH YOUR BACK. SPREAD THE WORD. CARRY SALT!”

#

“Extra! Extra! Crowley Manor fire mystery! Investigation continues!”

Dean passed out another trio of papers. _The Bugle_ was doing a roaring trade since _The New York Sun_ went under. The papers just seemed to stop one morning, after the newspaper baron’s abrupt and unexplained disappearance. It was all the newspapers were talking about, a single body was found in the fire, and it was certainly not Crowley. Almost all his print offices were similarly abandoned, becoming good spots for a kid without a roof over their head to squat for the night. Weasel had rather wisely chosen to switch papers, leaving The Pen with a whole new employer who had reluctantly lowered the price back to pre-strike rates. Kids still went hungry, still struggled to make ends meet, but at least they had a chance. The Union was gaining a Brooklyn-sized reputation.

The story of that morning had become a legend, blown ridiculously out of proportion by a thousand or so eye-witnesses, none of whom were very helpful to the coppers. It was even told with wry disbelief by hunters at the ‘Lark, how John’s boys had gathered an army of streetrats to create a kind of anti-demon patrol. Nobody believed the bit about the angels, of course, no one outside the small fellowship that had gathered in the Meadowlark’s cellar that night, proclaiming themselves the new Kings of New York.

It hadn’t changed the business of hunting or selling papers. Cas rubbed his face, coming back empty-handed from a neat-looking hall down the end of the street.  
“Your gullin’ me, you’re done already? What was it, old ladies again?”

“The elderly are rather insistent on making strange noises and pinching cheeks,” Cas said balefully, with a look that, if Dean wasn’t Dean, he’d describe as almost cute.

“Good, you can help me with mine!” he said cheerfully, dumping twenty more papers into the angel’s arms.

“No fair,” Sam grumbled, similarly besieged by the rich and elderly.

“Yeah, well, get your own angel.” Dean slung an arm around Castiel and grinned wickedly “I hear Gabriel’s keen.”

His brother made a disgusted noise and crossed the street, nimbly dodging a hansom cab and muttering about how embarrassing they were.

Dean felt younger than he ever had since they’d been stranded in New York.   Despite several hunts a week chasing up the last of Crowley’s possessed still hiding in the alleyways and parlours, he felt good. With thousands of kids taking the Street Journal to heart, the interlopers were getting easier to find and easier to avoid. The nightmares were less frequent now. Not gone. There were always fresh horrors waiting in a hunter’s mind, but they were manageable. Especially on the nights when Cas snuck in under the guise of keeping watch over them. The angel was a terrible liar.

“Extra! Extra!”

The weight of the coins felt good in his pockets, enough to keep them fed and clothed and hunting for another week, but it was nothing compared to the sound of hundreds of newsies haggling and yelling, embellishing headlines and arguing over turf again. There was a quiet, unspoken camaraderie between the Union now, born of the struggle and the late nights wondering if they’d make it to The Pen the next morning. But no streetkid was an innocent in this city, not at the turn of the century.  The supernatural was just a different flavour of darkness to these kids, he realised.

Cas was still beside him, giving him that intense look he’s come to enjoy snatching glances over the crush of street life.

He blinked.

“Oh wait, you’re not gonna—”

Dean felt the familiar feeling of the rooftop under his boots. He recognised the view and shirts flapping on the line with the sheets with white sails. The unpleasant dizziness that accompanied the angels’ preferred method of travel subsided as he burrowed into Cas’s coat. He’d managed to land them between the lines of washing. He ducked his head as one of Bobby’s shirts almost smacked him in the face.

“Sammy’s gonna have a tantrum when he realises we ditched him again” he grinned “You’re gettin’ me in trouble, angel.”

“You hardly need my help for _that_.” Cas replied dryly.

“Yeah, but it’s more fun with you around, Blue Eyes,”

He pressed their lips together. He could feel Cas smiling against his mouth. He threw an arm around him as they dangled their legs over the edge, the wind whipping at Dean’s hat and Cas’s dark blue bandanna. He pulled Cas close as Sam yelled something from the street below.

He grabbed an extra paper for each of them, flicking through it, watching the angel watching him, checking for anything unusual. Anything that needed hunting.

Dean Winchester, newsie and hunter, looked out over the city, at the carts rambling by, small enough to be drawn by mice. The stench of rotting garbage, factory smoke and the sizzle of cooking food mixed together, blown over the island. Trams, hooves and the rare automobile blended together into a chorus of haste. New York was a fancy lady alright, and she liked to fight downright dirty sometimes, but he liked to think they’d come to something of a truce. For now anyway. A few more years perhaps. He could do a few more years in New York, if it meant having Castiel and Sam and Bobby in his life. Santa Fe would wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Well, dear reader, we made it to the end! I sincerely hope you've enjoyed King of New York and it's given you something, anything really. Apologies to those Americans, especially New Yorkers and historians who've suffered throughout this story. Hopefully the scant slang I've used and the dearth of commas didn't pull you out of the story. I had way too much fun writing these characters, and it's been a great learning experience.
> 
> If you haven't checked out the wonderful accompanying art by asteroath, check them out at http://asteraoth.livejournal.com/10539.html#cutid1  
>  Her art and energy kept me going when my inner neurotic writer was in the throes of dramatic self-doubt.

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I'd like to draw your attention to the **Art Masterpost** : [Which you can see here](http://asteraoth.livejournal.com/10539.html#cutid1) for this fic by the extremely talented [asteroath](http://asteraoth.livejournal.com/), who I will gush about more later, but the link should be front and centre, so to speak. This fic was produced as part of the [2012 DeanCas BigBang](http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com/), and I'd heartily recommend checking them out when you've finished up here. We're lucky enough to have a lot of talented people and some lovely mods!
> 
> Secondly, kind reader, apologies for inaccuracies in regards to the geography and history located within. In the spirit of the source material, the setting is presented as somewhat idealised, if a little darker than the 'Newsies' world. If you haven't seen the cult film 'Newsies' yet, it's a lot of fun, and while certainly not necessary viewing to enjoy this fic, it does have a young Christian Bale singing and dancing.  
> Secondly, my warm and profound thanks to asteroath who has not only brought the story to life with her beautiful and charming illustrations, but also in whom I gained a great new friend. Your Livestreams kept me sane and your enthusiasm is infectious.  
> And finally, a huge thanks to Selina, who stepped in last minute to beta this monster, you're a saint for putting up with my antics. Any errors contained within are mine alone.


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